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Chapter Text

They called him Yiling Laozu, after a folk hero associated with the town in the foothills of the mountains where he was found.

When the word first got out to the public, that hikers who ventured dangerously close to the mountaintop glaciers too early in the season had barely escaped being killed when a great piece of ice calved off from the glacier, only to discover the frozen body of a man trapped in the clear ice that was uncovered, it caused a minor stir. Ancient bodies were always a subject of fascination, and ice mummies in particular, but a body estimated to date from somewhere around the fifth or sixth centuries didn’t have nearly the cachet of, say, one from the Stone Age. Especially when most of the reading public outside of China had no concept of what that even meant; even most within China would only have the vague understanding that it fell within the chaotic period between the fall of the Han and the reunification of China with the rise of the Sui. The scientific community was more interested, of course, but the location was difficult to access, the accounts so obviously exaggerated…

Then the photo was published.

It was a beautiful image (and instantly made the career of the enterprising photographer who had taken it). The afternoon sun had set the clear ice alight until it almost seemed to be glowing, and at its heart was a beautiful young man, dressed in ancient robes and wearing a sword, so perfectly preserved that the viewer could be forgiven for thinking that he was only sleeping.

It was a sensation.

Practically overnight, an entire cottage industry sprang up for the thousands who wanted to come and see Yiling Laozu in his ice tomb. Historians and scientists alike marveled over the level of preservation – historians for the thousands of tiny details to be studied, scientists for the impossible level of preservation and the complete lack of damage despite the crushing pressure of the ice. Yiling Laozu merchandise appeared throughout the world – to say nothing of the sudden emergence of Yiling Laozu-themed fiction that swiftly swept through the publishing world. Some of it was even readable.

The trouble started almost immediately.

For one thing, the town of Yiling was a small rural settlement, less than five thousand even at its peak and swiftly depopulated in recent years as most of the younger generations struck out for the cities in search of employment. It had neither the infrastructure nor the human resources to host the vast numbers of tourists expecting food and lodgings and entertainment – and many of the townspeople, who had taken the discovery of Yiling Laozu to heart with proprietary pride, were offended by this sudden invasion of tourists come to gape at him.

In addition, the glacier where Yiling Laozu rested was high and largely inaccessible, with no easy path to reach it. There was also the ever-present danger of rockslides and avalanches, especially because it was so close to where the ice advanced and retreated every year, wearing away at the sides of the mountain. It was not long at all before several groups had needed to be air-lifted out after accidents or simply getting lost, and finally several deaths forced the authorities to crack down – somewhat effectively – on expeditions up the mountain.

More concerning to the scientific community were the observations about the rapid degradation of the glacier, both due to human passage and due to the fact that the newly exposed ice, lacking the protective cover of white snow and exposed to the sun for much of the day, was beginning to melt. There were even concerns raised that, given that the clear ice meant the sun’s rays could easily reach through it to the man’s body, he might begin thawing inside the ice before the ice itself had time to melt. A reflective cover was quickly set up to attempt to stall the process, while debates and arguments raged between proponents of leaving Yiling Laozu in place and those who wanted him removed from the mountain to a place where he could be safely preserved and more easily studied.

Ultimately, the argument for careful removal won out – largely because an expedition sent to assess the condition of the ice discovered that someone had attempted to crudely chisel their way through the ice while the world argued, and everyone was forced to agree that attempting some sort of security arrangement in such a remote location to prevent a repeat attempt would be both impractical and likely ineffective.

Having the prestigious Cloud Recesses University take responsibility for the project helped settle any remaining objections – especially from the people of Yiling, who had been bristling at the thought of their Laozu being locked away in the vault of some foreign university. Even if, realistically, the Cloud Recesses were equally inaccessible, especially to simple farmers.

The entire process took months, with careful cores being taken from the ice for dating and to assess the structural integrity (as well as looking for some explanation for the impossible level of preservation), and then the painstaking process of carving out the piece of ice holding Yiling Laozu without causing any more damage to the glacier or the mountain than absolutely necessary. To say nothing of then transporting the massive piece of ice safely to the university and its specially-built, thermally-controlled storage facility. Ultimately, the transport had been handled using military transport helicopters, to the wagging of more than a few tongues.

Once Yiling Laozu was safely in place, of course, the debates continued. Most of the public wanted Yiling Laozu on display, open for human eyes to wonder at. Researchers wanted more restricted access – but access, to study and make detailed observations through the ice. And, of course, there were always the voices arguing that now that the body was safely in a research facility, where modern preservation methods could take the place of a fluke of nature, it should be thawed and opened up to more invasive studies, so that the man’s belongings could be catalogued and studied in more detail, and the body itself could be assessed for information about ancient life, diet, grooming – and, of course, the mystery of its preservation.

When the university announced the decision to thaw Yiling Laozu, the international community exploded.

Accusations began pouring in that the decision to remove him from the glacier had never been more than a ploy to side-step the stakeholders who wanted the man preserved as he was. Yiling Laozu fever was still running high – it had even gained momentum, to the point that a Yiling Laozu convention had been organized and had met for several years in a row, first in Yiling and then in the town of Caiyi, near the university. Within less than a day of the announcement, the first protestors started gathering outside the university gates. Their numbers quickly swelled, with people flying in from across the globe to participate. Perhaps unsurprisingly, many were young women (and a not insignificant number of young men) drawn to the fairytale romanticism of a beautiful prince sleeping inside an eternal prison of ice.

But not all of them. The town of Yiling sent a formal delegation to protest the university’s decision, arguing that they had only agreed to Yiling Laozu’s removal to ensure his protection, and accusing the university of acting in bad faith. Many people in the scholarly community objected as well, with historians pointing out that, given the extensive documentary and archaeological evidence available for the time period in question, there was very little to be gained by conducting more invasive and potentially destructive research – especially in light of Yiling Laozu’s uniqueness and the historical, cultural and aesthetic value of preserving him as he was. A petition even began making the rounds to declare World Heritage status for Yiling Laozu, to ensure his continued preservation.

Lan Wangji strongly suspected that his uncle’s determination to go ahead with the plan to thaw Yiling Laozu had a great deal to do with the latter argument. A scientific argument, he might have accepted – after all, Lan Qiren had frequently expounded at length over the limited inferences one could draw from a unique specimen. But to have his decisions questioned on the basis of inherent cultural and aesthetic value? And not even by scholars, but by international bureaucrats, many of whom had not the least actual interest in Chinese history and heritage?

That smacked of romanticism. The one thing guaranteed to drive Lan Qiren to a raging fury.

To be honest – and Lan Wangji tried to be, not only with the spoken word but with himself as well – he harbored certain unfilial suspicions regarding why his uncle had seen fit to include him in the select group of researchers allowed to be present for the final thawing process. Oh, on paper he was a “Historical Culture and Language Expert,” present in case questions should come up regarding the relative importance and cultural significance of the things Yiling Laozu carried on his person, should the thawing process destabilize something beyond viable preservation. His degrees in history and literature did technically qualify him for the role. Technically.

He knew that many of the archaeologists, bioanthropologists, scientists and technicians on the team thought his inclusion was nepotism, although at least most of them did not seem to hold that against him. And he would grant the point. His uncle was enough of the old guard to consider the inclusion of his nephews as his just due as head of the project. Personally, however, Lan Wangji strongly suspected that this was another of his uncle’s ongoing attempts to rebuke him for not only pursuing the barely acceptable fields of history and literature, but daring to delve into a secondary degree in folklore.

Suffice to say that his uncle had had opinions when that carefully not-mentioned detail had come to light.

“Cultivators! Ghosts and giant monsters! Magic powers! Immortality! Superstitious wish-fulfillment nonsense!”

Still. For all he had mixed feelings about the project – and his inclusion in it – Lan Wangji felt that he should be here. If Yiling Laozu was to die a second death of sorts today, removed from the strange stasis of his preservation in the ice, then he deserved at least one person present who was thinking of him as a human being who had once lived and breathed, rather than as a priceless historic specimen.

Two people, he corrected himself, feeling skinny fingers close on the sleeve of the lab coat everyone was required to wear, even though they were all in a separate observation room next to the lab where the procedure was actually taking place.

“You don’t have to stay if you do not want to,” he said quietly.

Wen Yuan shook his head fiercely, although his distress was obvious from the way his lips were pressed together in a thin, uneven line. Not surprising. Truth be told, Lan Wangji had wondered whether or not to even mention his uncle’s invitation for the boy to attend – which was absolutely nepotism, given that technically Wen Yuan was nothing more than a local high school student and the ward of one of the university’s medical researchers who was assisting in the project.

He knew his uncle had extended the offer as a favor, a unique opportunity for the orphan Lan Wangji was mentoring to be involved in an important scientific project. But Wen Yuan was uncommonly sensitive for a sixteen year old boy. And he had a particular attachment to Yiling Laozu.

They had met when Wen Yuan was a silent ten-year-old, newly handed over to his cousins’ care and still processing the death of the grandmother who had raised him. He’d stumbled across one of Lan Wangji’s papers on the development of meditative practices and belief in Daoist immortals and had reached out with questions. By the time that he had entered high school, he was a regular visitor at the university, and happily spent his summers as Lan Wangji’s research assistant. Which, in recent years, had involved delving into the fascinating lore of Yiling Laozu – both the ice man and the folkloric hero – and recording observations of the man himself in an effort to narrow down his time and place of origin.

They had spent hours together with the man in the ice. On some level, Wen Yuan had come to think of Yiling Laozu as a companion in their journey to explore this lost fragment of the past. As Lan Wangji had.

Still. The boy deserved to make his own choices, and when the offer had been presented, he had insisted on attending with Lan Wangji. But Lan Wangji could easily see the conflicted look in the boy’s eyes when they flickered towards the large viewing window looking into the lab where the de-icing procedure would take place.

When Yiling Laozu had been found, he’d been upright in the ice. It had given him an ethereal quality, an illusion of being poised in midair like a Daoist immortal from the sacred gardens of Mount Kunlun, with the long banner of his hair, tied in a high tail but otherwise left loose, flowing in a slow waving arc down the length of his back.

But, of course, the nature of the pose meant that the ice block they’d cut around him was taller than it was wide or thick, and to minimize the risk of it falling, outside of a special display when Yiling Laozu first was brought to the museum, he was always stored and transported with the ice laid flat, effectively on his back.

Still striking. Still ethereal. But somehow much more fragile seeming.

And, lying on the specially designed table meant to carefully wear away the ice, he looked… very alone.

Although Lan Wangji suspected he and Wen Yuan were the only ones to think so. In fact, he had the feeling that when choosing his project team, his uncle had quite deliberately selected team members for their disinclinations towards sentimentality.

Which only made him more determined to be here. It seemed Wen Yuan felt much the same.

The intercom connecting the observation room to the lab turned on. “Everything looks like it’s in order,” Lan Xichen said. “I’m going to turn the conductor on now.”

Lan Wangji turned his attention to the large observation window and the lab, where his brother was carefully adjusting the controls on the heating elements that would be used to remove the last layers of ice while – if the design created by the project team was successful – leaving the body inside untouched. Eventually the thaw would be completed, of course, but everyone had agreed that pausing after the removal of the external ice for closer observation of the intact body first would be preferable.

Which presented the same logistical challenge as when Yiling Laozu was in the glacier: the danger that his body would begin to thaw before the ice melted. They’d tried to compensate by cutting away as much of the ice as possible, leaving only a thin final layer in place, barely a centimeter thick. And they were attempting to remove the remainder using low heat and direct contact with the ice, rather than risking any radiant heat reaching the darker material of the man’s clothing.

For several long minutes, nothing happened. Having expected as much, Lan Wangji clasped his wrist behind his back and simply breathed, calm and steady – a habit picked up from his uncle, ironically enough, but one that had stood him in good stead in countless long lines, public transit stations, and intimidating his dissertation committee. Not that the last had been intentional, exactly, but apparently long still patience made him… difficult to question.

Wen Yuan, he was amused to note, had picked up the habit as well, although his eyes remained locked on the window, as if by staring intently enough he would be able to see the incremental melting of the ice.

The procedure had been going for about half an hour when unexpectedly, Lan Xichen made a signal, frowning.

“Xichen? What is it?” Lan Qiren asked.

“Maybe nothing,” Lan Xichen replied, after hesitating a moment too long. “I’m just going to take a closer look.”

Everyone in the observation room tensed. This was, after all, the most delicate point. If it wasn’t going to be possible to remove the ice without beginning to thaw Yiling Laozu, they would have to move very quickly to preserve some of the data they wanted. The cellular damage caused by the freezing process meant that once the ice thawed, the damage would spread rapidly.

Lan Wangji glanced at Wen Yuan. “Leave if you need to,” he told the boy quietly.

Wen Yuan shook his head. “No, I want to stay…”

Lan Wangji wasn’t certain what caught his attention – a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, a hint of sound, a flash of intuition.

He looked up to see Lan Xichen slam into the window. Drop out of sight, stunned by the impact. Beyond, shards of shattered ice fell from black robes scattered across the floor as Yiling Laozu’s body tumbled off the lab table—

Twisted. Landed on his feet. Stood.

Piercing silvery-grey eyes flickered across the room, wary and confused.

Lan Wangji froze. Yiling Laozu was awake.

…Yiling Laozu was alive.

Chapter Text

Dimly, distantly, Lan Wangji was aware of equipment alarms blaring. Someone shouting. The crack of a coffee mug dropped at precisely the wrong angle. But the observation room was a bubble of stunned silence, as everyone froze.

He would find the wordplay of that amusing, later.

For the moment, Lan Wangji could only stare, as frozen with shock as anyone else.

How? The man should be dead. He’d been frozen – trapped in solid ice – he was over a thousand years old—

The door to the lab slammed open.

“Nobody move! Hands up!”

A trio of security guards surged into the lab, weapons drawn – someone must have hit a panic button when Lan Xichen had gone flying, or some sort of automatic alarm had been triggered, they’d been on high security already because of the protestors at the university gates—

Yiling Laozu reacted immediately, shifting to put his back to the lab wall, body tense and wary.

The motion drew the eyes of the guard in front, and Lan Wangji saw the moment the man realized what – who – he was looking at. Saw the look of utter, blank disbelief, followed by pale shock that turned the guard’s face as white as bleached paper—

“I-I said hands up! Get down on the floor!”

Yiling Laozu simply tilted his head slightly, as if wondering how he was supposed to do both things at the same time.

No, not that – he doesn’t understand what they’re saying!

Of course he wouldn’t, if they were right about the timeframe than the language he spoke was fifteen hundred years old, for all intents and purposes it was a completely different language…

“Tell them to stand down,” he managed to force out, although his tongue felt as heavy as lead in his mouth. “Uncle, tell them to stand down, he doesn’t understand them…”

“Impossible,” Lan Qiren was muttering, clearly lost in his own shock and not even noticing Lan Wangji’s words. “This is physically impossible…!”

“Uncle—!”

“Stop it!”

Lan Wangji started, only realizing that the space beside him was empty when a lanky figure darted past the security guards to skid to a stop between them and the impossible figure of Yiling Laozu, arms spread wide.

Wen Yuan!

In his defense, Wen Yuan hadn’t planned to jump in front of a bunch of twitchy guys holding guns.

Except that his head had been full of a horrible jumble of he’s alive, he’s alive, he’s alive and they’re going to kill him…!, and the security guys had left the door open, and he hadn’t known what he was going to do beyond something but he had to do it!

“Don’t get in the way, kid!” the guy in front snapped, and oh great, Wen Yuan actually recognized him, this was the same guard who always kept trying to kick him out because high school students didn’t belong running around the university, even though no one else cared and he even had official permission to come. “He’s dangerous, he attacked Doctor Lan, move!”

“Of course he did!” Wen Yuan snapped back impatiently, not budging. “What would you do if you suddenly woke up and you’d been kidnapped by aliens?! That’s got to be how he feels right now!”

One of the other guards made a strangled noise, and the third’s lips twitched slightly. The guy in the front just spluttered – and spluttering was fine, it was even good, Wen Yuan would take it, especially when spluttering meant the guy had lowered his gun a little bit…

“…pfft…”

He blinked and looked over his shoulder. Because Yiling Laozu had just laughed. Okay, not laugh-laughing, but he knew a snicker when he heard one, and the man’s silvery-grey eyes were… he’d always thought the expression about eyes dancing was a bit of poetic license, but this time Wen Yuan was pretty sure that no other phrase would fit.

Blinking again, Wen Yuan smiled tentatively, and felt his heart squeeze a little when he got an amused grin in return. Because that wasn’t I’m in over my head and don’t know what to do, Wen Yuan knew what that looked like from Mo Xuanyu. That was this whole situation is unexpectedly hilarious.

Sputtering became a snarl. “You think this is funny, huh?!”

The next second got… confusing.

There was a pow sort of noise. Suddenly Wen Yuan wasn’t standing where he’d been, because he’d been pushed off to the side and Yiling Laozu was there instead, eyes narrowed and face hard, one arm raised with a closed fist in front of him, watching the security guard like he was one second from taking the man down hard, and Wen Yuan had a feeling he could do it…

“Su Minshan, what the hell are you doing?!”

Everyone in the room flinched – except for Wen Yuan, whose brain was still spinning its wheels trying to catch up with wait what just happened, and Yiling Laozu, who was still watching the security guys with narrowed eyes.

The guy in the front – okay, Su Minshan, apparently he had a name – didn’t flinch, he jumped, staring wide-eyed first at the big man who’d walked into the room, and then at the gun in his hand as if he’d never seen it before.

Then, suddenly, he flung the gun down onto the floor. “It’s not my fault! That was a misfire, it went off on its own!”

The big man who Wen Yuan vaguely recognized as the head of university security blanched as the gun hit the floor with a clatter, spinning a bit as it slid across the hard surface to come up with a clunk against the base of a cabinet.

Then he turned a glower that probably qualified as a lethal weapon all on its own full-force on Su Minshan. “You two,” he gritted, “get this idiot out of here, sit him down, and make sure he does absolutely nothing until I have time to deal with him.”

One of the guards gave a thin-lipped nod, grabbing the protesting Su Minshan by the arm and pushing him not exactly gently towards the door. The other hesitated. “Mister Nie, is that a good idea?” he asked, eyes flickering towards Yiling Laozu, who was watching everything with sharp, intent eyes, still tensed to move if he needed to. “Minshan overreacted, but – that man…”

“Just stepped in front of the kid because he thought the situation was dangerous,” the big man said dryly. “Which to me is pretty good evidence that he’s not hostile. So since the lot of you have apparently completely forgotten everything you ever learned on how to not escalate a situation, scram already so I can handle it.”

Off to the side, Lan Xichen coughed slightly as he used the edge of a counter to pull himself back up. Professor Lan Wangji’s older brother looked worse for wear, his braid loosened and his lab coat askew – even more disconcerting given how put-together he normally looked. But the gentle, slightly rueful smile as he straightened was just as Wen Yuan had learned to expect.

“It’s all right, A’Yao,” he said, looking at the hesitating security officer. “Young Wen Yuan was quite right – given the circumstances in which he woke up, his reaction was completely reasonable.” He reached down to pick up the clipboard and pen lying on the floor before the puddle from a stray piece of cracked ice could reach it, wincing only a little bit. He rubbed his side, then added, “And to be honest… I think he pulled that kick.”

The guard pursed his lips, clearly unhappy, but finally sighed and nodded, stepping through the door and pulling it closed behind him.

The head of security sighed heavily, rubbing his forehead for a moment, before he turned to Wen Yuan and Yiling Laozu, and hesitated. “Gotta admit, I don’t know quite what to do next…”

Yiling Laozu tilted his head slightly, studying the man. Then, very deliberately, he opened his hand.

All of them stared blankly at the bullet lying on his palm.

Humming to himself, Yiling Laozu tilted his hand this way and that, studying the way it rolled about, testing the heft of it. Then, quite deliberately, he turned his hand over, letting the bullet drop to the floor and bounce on the tile.

Suddenly, Wen Yuan’s head was spinning.

That guy shot that at me. I almost got shot… Dizzily, he grabbed the edge of the lab table in a desperate bid for balance. And threw up.

Ouch. Don’t blame the kid one bit, though. Nie Mingjue knew that wrenching feeling of I almost died, someone tried to kill me from personal experience, and he was a grown adult who’d signed up for these sorts of messes. He didn’t blame the kid for losing his breakfast – and probably last night’s dinner, from the way he kept retching, ow – in the least.

Nie Mingjue had not signed up for a thousand-year-old corpse who had decided that he wasn’t dead and could apparently catch bullets barehanded.

Granted, also a guy who had immediately caught and steadied the kid without so much as blinking at the mess – Nie Mingjue could practically hear the shrieking from the guys in the observation room at the thought of bile splashing on those ancient boots – and even held Wen Yuan’s hair back with a gentleness that suggested he had his own experience with post-combat queasiness.

Actually, he probably did. Nie Mingjue might not remember much from his history classes, but he knew enough about the post-Han world from military classes and Lan Xichen’s gushing to know that if their iceman was wearing a sword, he knew how to use it. And likely had.

Once the kid had finished retching, Yiling Laozu helped him sit down on the nearest flat raised surface – which ironically was the same lab table they’d been thawing the guy on, stray chunks of ice impatiently brushed aside as he helped the kid lean forward and put his head between his knees.

“Wen Yuan!”

It said something about the day he was having that Nie Mingjue actually jumped a little as Lan Wangji rushed past him, moving at that weirdly Lan Not Running pace that meant get out of the way or face the consequences. For a moment, Nie Mingjue held his breath, because Yiling Laozu had already been forced to defend the kid once and his tolerance had to be at its limits, especially because there was no way the guy was possibly firing on all cylinders when he’d been frozen solid for over a thousand years. But apparently Worried Guardian was a universal that transcended time, because the guy simply looked at Lan Wangji’s pale face and tilted his head to indicate the table on the kid’s other side, his hand still rubbing soothing circles on Wen Yuan’s back. Lan Wangji immediately sat, leaning in to speak to Wen Yuan quietly but intently.

Nie Mingjue allowed himself a silent sigh of relief, and took advantage of the quiet moment to step to the side and pick up Su Minshan’s discarded firearm.

And promptly started swearing, vociferously enough that Lan Xichen and Wen Yuan both looked shocked, Lan Wangji actually frowned at him, and even the guy from fifteen hundred years ago looked bemused, probably because really pissed off did not require understanding the exact words to communicate.

Because who the hell dropped a gun with the safety disengaged?! They were so damned lucky the thing hadn’t gone off, because if it had, someone would be bleeding. With all the hard surfaces in here, ricochet wasn’t a possibility, it was inevitable.

That was it, the guy was out. Nie Mingjue could understand freaking out under the circumstances – because really, there had to be a half-dozen horror movies that started out this way. But the guy hadn’t just freaked out, he’d escalated, screwed up and fired his gun straight at a teenage kid who didn’t do more than talk, and then tried to weasel out of responsibility when he’d damned well pulled that trigger with intent. Nie Mingjue was going to throw Su Minshan straight out of the university gates and all the way down the mountain!

Ah, hells. Given this mess, firing the guy’s going to be complicated. There isn’t an NDA in the world that’s going to keep his mouth shut, not about this.

Ah well. At least that would give him a chance to try and figure out who had issued the guy live ammunition. The fact that they had firearms at all was a reflection of just how much international attention and prestige was tied up in the Yiling Laozu project, the last thing they needed was some idiot protester out to protect her precious husbando getting shot dead. Everyone should have been issued safety bullets, not the real thing, dammit!

Taking a moment to calm himself, Nie Mingjue very carefully clicked the safety back into place – acutely aware that Yiling Laozu was watching him intently from the corner of his eye, which just meant the guy was not stupid – and then went back to the door.

Opening it, he frowned. “I told you to leave.”

Meng Yao shrugged slightly. “Minshan’s not going to raise a fuss until it sinks in that it wasn’t my fault is not going to get him out of trouble. Zonghui can sit on him until then. Are you sure you want me to leave? I mean, his reaction was reasonable, but that guy…”

“…is probably calmer than anyone else in the whole building right now,” Nie Mingjue told him dryly. He handed the firearm over to Meng Yao. “Get that stored as evidence, then either go help sit on Minshan or go to the office and start writing up an incident report for me. Pretty sure we got the whole thing on camera, but I want your take on this.”

Meng Yao pursed his lips, still looking reluctant, but he did finally accept the gun and walk away.

Nie Mingjue stepped back inside and closed the door. Irony was, Yiling Laozu was probably the calmest person in the room and likely the building right now. If only because he didn’t know just how impossible the circumstances were.

Can’t say I envy him the moment when it all sinks in, Nie Mingjue admitted to himself. Glad I’m not going to be the one having that conversation. “Hi, have to tell you that you’ve been frozen for over a thousand years, hope you didn’t have anyone waiting for you, you really should be dead…”

Huh. Given the level of chaos, and… well, everything…

Grabbing the intercom to the connecting room, Nie Mingjue pitched his voice to the clear, commanding tone he’d been trained in to cut through the confusion of a battlefield and said, “If she’s not already on her way, someone fill Doctor Wen in on what’s going on and tell her to get over here. She has three patients to check on.”

And, huh. Yiling Laozu had twitched just a little bit, eyes darting from Nie Mingjue to the glass window connecting the rooms and back again. Had he heard the intercom on the other side? Not exactly impossible, the window wasn’t designed to be completely soundproof, but still. That was good hearing. Sensitive hearing.

“Three?” Lan Xichen asked quietly. “Surely that’s not…”

Nie Mingjue cut him off with a pointed scowl. “You got kicked hard enough to go flying,” he said dryly. “Yeah, the guy probably pulled it, but you’re still getting checked out.”

And maybe bringing Wen Qing in would help calm things down a bit more, because Yiling Laozu was putting on a good face but under the iron calm he had to be freaking out. Bare minimum, the fluorescent lights in here buzzed. Nie Mingjue was used to it, but it wasn’t hard to imagine how nerve-grating that would be if you didn’t even know what was making the sounds…

Who am I kidding. Forget the buzz, he wouldn’t know what electric lights are. Yeah, the kid had definitely been onto something with the whole “abducted by aliens” analogy.

Speaking of whom, Wen Yuan finally drew in a breath that only shuddered a little and straightened, still looking distinctly green around the edges and wild-eyed. But he managed to muster a slightly shaky smile for his mentor. Then he turned to Yiling Laozu, who’d drawn back a bit to give the two space and keep an eye on his surroundings, and to Nie Mingjue’s surprise, gave a pretty good formal bow despite the odd position. “Thank you,” he said.

Yiling Laozu blinked for a moment, then laughed, waving a hand carelessly as he said… something.

It… sounded like it should be familiar. Honestly, it reminded Nie Mingjue of the time he’d spent a couple weeks in Hong Kong, back before he’d retired from military service. The writing had been fine and familiar – mostly, there’d been some interesting double-takes along the way – and part of him had felt like he should have understood what people were saying.

Yeah, not so much. He’d mostly gotten by using the English that he’d been forced to study in school and then brushed up on in officer’s training.

Lan Wangji frowned slightly, eyes narrowing. Said… something, pronouncing each set of sounds slowly and cautiously.

Yiling Laozu blinked, looking taken aback. Tilted his head one way, then the other. Frowned slightly, and said something in response, much slower this time.

Lan Wangji listened with the intent focus that Nie Mingjue usually associated with lining up a tricky shot, Lan Xichen leaning over a staff chart, or Meng Yao setting forth to do battle against red tape. Then the man turned to look at Lan Xichen. “Brother.” He tilted his head to indicate the clipboard in Lan Xichen’s hand. “May I?”

“Eh? Oh. Of course.” Still looking bemused, Lan Xichen handed over the clipboard, and then plucked a spare mechanical pencil out of the breast pocket of his lab coat – presumably the one he’d been using to keep notes on the thawing process had gone flying at the same time he had – and handed that over as well. “But do you really think…”

Lan Xichen let the words trail off with a wry smile, since it was obvious that Lan Wangji wasn’t listening. He’d flipped one of the sheets over and was carefully writing. Writing using the traditional characters, not the modern simplified version.

Nie Mingjue almost laughed when Yiling Laozu shamelessly leaned forward to look over the man’s elbow at the clipboard.

Immediately, his face brightened, and he opened his mouth as if to say something before huffing, clearly realizing that wasn’t going to work. And then did a double-take, shooting Lan Wangji an almost comic dirty look.

No almost, that’s absolutely comedic. Deliberately so. “What are you writing?”

“A line from the Shi-jing,” Lan Wangji replied shortly.

Poetry. Gah. Why. Nie Mingjue had suffered through that in school, and that had been enough. He kept up with it enough to give semi-intelligible feedback when his brother was in one of his, “But Dage…” moods, and that was about it. His brain hurt to imagine an era when your mastery of the stuff dictated whether you were considered fit for military service…

Oh. Huh. Given that there had been a time when pretty much any noble, educated man would be expected to at least attempt to master the four classics… Yiling Laozu had a sword. Odds were good that he also had an education.

Which meant that his pout at the poetry had to be at least half a deflection, or at least a stalling tactic. You want to make me admit to being educated? How could you!

And in fact, the pout vanished as Lan Wangji finished writing and offered the pencil to the man. Yiling Laozu plucked it gingerly from Lan Wangji’s fingers, frowning as he turned it over in his hands and held it up to look more closely, as if he’d never seen…

Right. Mechanical pencil. The guy hadn’t seen anything like it before. Oops.

The guy handled the paper the same way. He ran quick fingers over the surface of it as his eyebrows rose. Flicked the paper lightly as if inspecting the weight. Turned one corner over, eyebrows going even higher before furrowing for a moment as he scanned the printed characters on the other side. Finally, however, he let the pages fall flat again, going back to the blank side Lan Wangji had been using. And held the pencil over the paper, although his grip was odd, the pencil vertical…

Brush, idiot. He’s used to writing with a brush and ink.

Except… the guy apparently realized the problem immediately. He hesitated, frowning slightly as his eyes flickered over to Lan Wangji’s hands. Then he adjusted his grip to what had to be an approximation of how Lan Wangji had held it, and rather than attempting immediately to write, claimed a corner of the paper to lay down a series of quick, light lines, clearly getting a feel for how the implement worked.

After a moment, he grinned and turned the clipboard to face them.

Wen Yuan made an undignified squeak, and to Nie Mingjue’s intense amusement, Lan Wangji’s ears reddened slightly. Understandably; that was a very good likeness of the two of them, Wen Yuan looking very stern and brave with Lan Wangji behind him looking on with dignified pride.

The corresponding sketch of two bunnies in the exact same poses and expressions was just hilariously adorable.

Yiling Laozu laughed – obviously he’d gotten exactly the reaction he’d aimed for. Then, spinning the pencil neatly in his fingers, he turned the clipboard back, tapped the back end lightly against his cheek for a moment in apparent thought, and began to write.

Behind Nie Mingjue, he heard the beeping of someone entering the code into the door’s lock, and the heavy chunk of the bolt disengaging.

And now he was grateful for an entirely new reason that they’d installed some damn heavy security on the place. The initial thought had been to keep more aggressive or violent protestors from getting in to disrupt the procedure, but given this…

The door opened. “Nie Mingjue, you had better have an explanation for what’s going on,” Wen Qing said briskly. “Because I’ve heard three different stories and they’re all crazy…”

A beat of silence.

“Well. Apparently not so crazy,” the doctor corrected herself, tone utterly flat.

Nie Mingjue smirked without turning around. He liked Wen Qing. Butted heads with her on a regular basis, yes, but he was a macho military guy and owned it, he respected a lady who didn’t let him intimidate her and wasn’t afraid to intimidate him right back. “No, it’s impossible all right. It just happens to also be true.”

Wen Qing sighed heavily. “Fine,” she said tartly, stepping forward. “Who am I treating, and what for?”

And there was the other reason he liked her: she didn’t waste time. Very handy when his guys had to break up a campus brawl that led to worse than a few bloody noses. “Lan Xichen, blunt impact.”

“I’m really quite fine,” Lan Xichen interrupted.

Nie Mingjue gave his friend a look. “The guy kicked you—”

“Which he was justified in doing,” Lan Xichen said briskly. And winced when he tried to straighten indignantly.

“Damn straight he was,” Nie Mingjue snorted. Anyone waking up to a situation as insane as this one got some leeway on twitchy reactions – and there was also the fact that none of them knew what had happened to get the guy stuck in ice. Odds were good that whatever he remembered most recently prior to waking up wasn’t anything pleasant. “Doesn’t change the fact that he sent you flying into the wall.”

The scary part was, Nie Mingjue was very sure that Yiling Laozu had pulled that kick. Anyone who could pull off what he had done could put enough force into a kick to make it potentially lethal. And, again, sword, and acted like he knew combat shakes. Even odds the guy had seen real combat, of the extremely up close and personal variety.

On the other hand, he’d woken up in a strange place, disoriented and confused, had been yelled at and threatened by people speaking a language he didn’t understand, and his basic response had been to defend himself, defend the kid, and mostly keep a curious attitude. And a mischievous sense of humor, going by the grin on his face as he spun the pencil in his fingers again, watching Lan Wangji frown at the clipboard that was back in his hands while also keeping an oh-so-casual eye on Nie Mingjue and the door. Which, given the way things had gone in the past ten minutes since the man had woken up to a completely alien environment, was also completely justified in Nie Mingjue’s opinion.

Wen Qing, meanwhile, had leveled a quelling look at Lan Xichen. “You’re getting checked,” she said, in a voice that brooked no objections. “The other patients?”

“Shock. Wen Yuan,” Nie Mingjue said. “Kid got shot at. Don’t think he actually got hurt, but…”

Wen Qing’s lips pressed together, eyes blazing furiously for a moment before the expression was shoved under professional neutrality by iron will. Nie Mingjue wasn’t completely clear on the kid’s story, but he knew that Wen Qing and her brother were his legal guardians, despite technically being cousins of some variety. He definitely knew Wen Qing had pulled some strings to get the kid his introduction to Lan Wangji.

“And I can guess the third,” she said, tugging the strap of the heavy-duty first aid kit she’d brought with her more securely over her shoulder and stepping forward.

And immediately stopped, eyeing the large observation window. “Lan Xichen. Please close that. This is a matter of medical confidentiality at the moment.”

Lan Xichen gaped at her, obviously scrambling to process that statement. “Close it? But…”

Huffing, Wen Qing stalked over to the controls by the window and pressed the button to lower the privacy screen over the glass. And, ignoring Lan Xichen, picked up the intercom controls. “I am well aware there are cameras installed in this room. In the unlikely event that something happens to justify violating patient privacy, you can use those. I am not doing an exam on someone I can’t even talk to with any more of a peanut gallery than strictly necessary,” she said curtly, before she briskly set the intercom down and silenced it.

Probably a wise choice. Nie Mingjue could just imagine Lan Qiren’s reaction to having his project so completely disrupted and now being locked out of observation – or rather, he knew that what he could imagine probably paled in comparison to the man’s actual reaction.

On the other hand, Wen Qing definitely had a point. He hadn’t even realized how tense Yiling Laozu still was until the glass window with its vague shapes beyond the bright lights was covered over.

Lan Xichen was looking blankly back and forth between Wen Qing, Lan Wangji and Nie Mingjue, apparently trying to decide if he should object to Wen Qing’s high-handed commandeering of the situation. After a moment, however, he sighed ruefully and sank down onto one of the lab chairs, offering the woman a sheepish smile.

There were limits to what Wen Qing could do in this sort of setting, of course. But she did first check Lan Xichen for a concussion, and then put him through a series of basic mobility checks, frowning at the way he winced when bending or twisting.

“He didn’t really kick me, exactly,” Lan Xichen said, sounding oddly apologetic – on Yiling Laozu’s behalf or his own, Nie Mingjue couldn’t tell. “It was… I was actually leaning right over him when his eyes opened. He was still mostly caught in the ice, but he got his leg up and… well, mostly he just shoved me away.”

“Shoved you hard enough you flew into the wall,” Nie Mingjue interjected, because that was still an important qualification. Although he supposed Lan Xichen had a point about the difference between the plant-and-push of a shove and the snap-impact of a kick. Given that it could also mean the difference between a nasty bruise and a ruptured spleen.

Wen Qing pursed her lips. “I expect you to go to the clinic for a proper exam later. I’ll make sure they know to expect you.”

Translation: he would show up there later, and if he didn’t she would know that he hadn’t and expect to know why. Which made sense, since a proper examination would require Lan Xichen taking his shirt and coat off so that they could actually see the bruise. Nie Mingjue had half-expected her to demand Lan Xichen to disrobe on the spot, but apparently she considered these circumstances too public, even with the observation window blocked.

Lan Xichen being who he was, of course, he would be at the clinic, right on schedule. And Wen Qing was clearly aware of that, because after pinning him with a look, she turned briskly away. “A’Yuan. You next.”

Honestly, at this point the kid could probably do without; the color had more or less returned to his face, and his eyes were clear. He could still stand to have something warm to drink and something light to replenish the meal he’d lost – and they’d need to pull out the biohazard kit and clean that mess up – but the worst of the shock seemed to have passed.

Except that Wen Qing also needed to check on Yiling Laozu. The man acted as if he’d simply gotten up from a nap, but Nie Mingjue knew a few things about faking it in precarious situations. Hard to beat waking up in an alien environment surrounded by people you couldn’t even talk to for a precarious situation.

Which was why Wen Qing was insisting on checking Wen Yuan, he was willing to bet. Give the guy a chance to see what they were doing before she tried to give an exam to someone she couldn’t explain anything to.

Wen Yuan apparently got that, too. He started to open his mouth as if to object, only to hesitate, glancing towards Yiling Laozu.

And did a double take.

Yiling Laozu blinked at them innocently before neatly removing a spring from its moorings and holding it up between his fingers, lightly flexing it to watch it bend. The recoil was clearly stronger than he’d expected; the spring slipped from his grip and went flying, only for him to neatly pluck it from the air with his other hand. Laughing, the man set it down beside the other pieces arranged neatly on the table next to him and looked back at Wen Yuan, eyebrows raised.

Nie Mingjue had taken apart any number of mechanical pencils and pens during the many meetings that had plagued his career. He was professionally impressed.

Moreso because the man continued playing with the pencil as Wen Qing started a very basic baseline exam on Wen Yuan, paying close attention to the process despite the apparent distraction. Nie Mingjue caught a flicker of surprise when Wen Qing let go of Wen Yuan’s wrist after a preliminary pulse check, and Yiling Laozu tilted his head and looked puzzled when she went to listen to the boy’s breathing. And all the while, long and agile fingers took the mechanical pencil down to its component parts, trailed over the precisely machined threading, flicked curiously against steel and plastic, and delicately traced the thin, fragile lead cores.

Finally, Wen Qing stepped back, nodded briskly at Wen Yuan. And turned to Lan Wangji. “You can communicate with him?” she asked, nodding to Yiling Laozu.

Lan Wangji hesitated. “Within strict limits,” he said, picking up the clipboard. And hesitated.

Yiling Laozu looked at him, then, sheepishly, at the dismantled pencil. Then, grinning, he picked the core up again.

Nie Mingjue felt his eyebrows go up as pieces clicked back into place, each one plucked up in the correct order with easy, quick certainty. The spring slid back over its base, the body spun back onto the threads that held it to the finger grip – and Yiling Laozu spun the reconstructed pencil lightly between his fingers, flipped it over, and offered the grip back to Lan Wangji.

All of that, despite the fact that the man would never have even seen anything like it before, and half the technology used to keep the pencil together – like those screw threads – would have been wholly unfamiliar to him.

That is a very smart man.

Lan Wangji’s expression didn’t shift at all as he accepted the pencil; Nie Mingjue envied the guy’s poker face. “What do you wish to know?”

“My patient’s name,” Wen Qing replied.

Nie Mingjue opened his mouth. Closed it.

Oh. Right. Yiling Laozu was their name for the guy, a label they’d slapped onto a human-shaped ice cube. It wasn’t his name.

Lan Xichen looked as stunned as Nie Mingjue felt. Lan Wangji simply nodded, frowning slightly in concentration before writing a single character.

Yiling Laozu – the man blinked, then chuckled, saying something accompanied by pointedly raised eyebrows at Lan Wangji.

Apparently that meant something to the man, because he inclined his head slightly. “Lan Wangji,” he said, and quickly, although still neatly, wrote the characters of his name.

Yiling Laozu tilted his head to read the characters, brow furrowed as he mouthed the name with apparent confusion. After a moment, he shrugged slightly and turned an expectant look on Wen Yuan.

The kid actually brightened. “I’m Wen Yuan!” he said, quickly taking the board and pencil when Lan Wangji passed them to him and writing it down. Yiling Laozu’s eyebrows rose slightly when he looked at it, but he nodded thoughtfully.

Then the man accepted the board and pencil in turn, carefully correcting his grip on the pencil before writing three characters and then turning the board to face them with a bright smile.

“Wei Wuxian,” he said.

NOTES:

(Yep, went over the limit. By about two sentences! So close!)

Could a cultivator actually catch a bullet barehanded? Eh. Probably not, and certainly not an MDZS cultivator, since that is – to use the RPG term – a relatively Low Magic setting. I’m justifying Wei Wuxian getting away with it here because, first, there was only one threat in the room and that threat was in plain view, which meant he was focused. And second, he could tell he was being threatened but he didn’t know what the weapon was, so he was on high alert. And also because it was one of the founding images for the fic, and Rule of Cool won out!

A note on Nie Mingjue: novel canon, he is not a particularly good person. He’s as rigid as Lan Qiren, vindictive, and hypocritical. But I’m generally more open to positive depictions of his character than I am with similar characters, simply because we only ever see him in canon when he has the equivalent of a malevolent prefrontal brain tumor – in other words, we know he’s suffering something that causes loss of temper, paranoia, and obsessive behavior. There are hints scattered throughout his flashback that he actually wasn’t so extreme initially – the fact that Nie Huaisang could be the person he is, his original decision to take Meng Yao under his wing, emphasizing to his men to not hurt civilians. (Not to mention the fact that the Wen Remnants were not originally prisoners of war; they were living free in a small settlement prior to Jin Zixun deciding to pull a Wen Chao. So obviously Nie Mingjue was at least originally willing to leave them alone, or at least be persuaded to do so.)

Plus, bluntly, I needed a security chief character, and since this is a full AU in which the setting is effectively one giant Original Character, I want to use canon characters as much as possible. (As opposed to casefic stories, where you’re writing in the original setting and thus all canon characters already have established roles.)

On a related note, I confess that usually it irks me a bit when AUs cast Wen Yuan as Lan Wangji’s son, cutting Wei Wuxian and the Wens out of his backstory (generally for the sake of Wei Wuxian falling in love with Good Single Dad Lan Wangji). But since any character in this story could not be part of Wei Wuxian’s backstory (due to the timeskip going from thirteen years to fifteen hundred), the only way to have Wen Yuan be involved at all was to give him ties with Lan Wangji. And the plotbunnies were very clear about the waking up in the lab scene!

Speaking of, I’m pretty sure Nie Zonghui is a CQL character? Or at least I don’t remember him from the novel. But I needed an extra security guy, so… yoink!

And yes, Middle Chinese was, for all intents and purposes, a completely different language from modern Mandarin. Using an English example for a sense of scale, Beowulf was originally written in the 700s CE, which is roughly the same time period I’m using as Wei Wuxian’s era of origin. And, contrary to what most movie linguists would have you think (yes, I’m looking at you, Stargate…), language reconstruction is never going to get you a version of a language that would be actually intelligible to someone of that time period. There are too many things based on guesses and missing evidence. We might be close in places, but there’s always going to be an implicit question mark over any reconstructed ancient language. To make matters worse, the sources we depend on for the reconstruction of ancient languages tend to be written documents. Now, that still works – yes, even for Chinese, mostly because they had rhyming dictionaries for poets to use! – but it’s important to remember that the written language was Classical Chinese, which would have been an older language predating Middle Chinese…

The Shi-jing is sometimes translated as the Book/Classic of Songs/Odes. It’s a collection of poetry from the Zhou dynasty and listed by Kongzi (Confucius) as one of the four great classic texts… which, yes, means that anyone who calls themselves educated would be able to recite significant portions of it from memory, and conversation would be full of allusions and side-references. Which, canonically, is the case with Wei Wuxian. He’s highly educated and very, very good at shifting formality registers; he’d have the classics mastered cold.

And as an interesting aside: based on some reading I’ve done, the interpretation of the poems of the Shi-jing were standardized and canonized fairly early on. Which means that, yes, if you have to use the poems as a means of communication, you at least have a commonly accepted interpretation to fall back on, which in turn would minimize chances of saying one thing while your counterpart hears something else.

(To be honest, my original plotbunny for this story involved Lan Wangji using his mastery of poetry as a means to communicate… except that I have zero knowledge of classical Chinese poetry beyond knowing that there is knowledge to be had!)

I also have no idea if there’s a Chinese pop-culture equivalent to husbando, but I couldn’t come up with anything else that conveyed the proper degree of frustrated exasperation…

Chapter Text

“As near as I can determine, he’s in good health,” Wen Qing said briskly. “Possibly a little chilled, but that’s hardly surprising.” Given that there still had been ice clinging to the hems of Wei Wuxian’s robes and even to that long banner of hair.

She would have liked to offer him a change of clothes. The bio research building was not exactly kept warm, the temperature controls were centrally determined and not adjustable, and having the man catch a chill from damp clothes after surviving freezing solid was just the sort of contradictory irony that she’d learned to expect in medicine. The problem was, there hadn’t been spare clothing available, beyond a few flimsy lab coats that were not sized for someone that tall.

We’ll probably have to ask Lan Wangji and Nie Mingjue to raid their closets for spares until we can get him some actual clothes of his own beyond those robes.

Plus, she had no intentions of asking the man to disrobe in front of cameras, especially considering that he didn’t even know such things existed.

Hm. Glancing at her computer, she quickly tapped in a note to ask Lan Wangji about historic privacy and nudity taboos. Given that most of her knowledge came from the occasional xianxia series she and A’Ning watched, it would be a good idea to consult with the closest thing they had to a cultural expert before she had to ask Wei Wuxian to take his shirt off.

Across the table, Lan Qiren’s fingers drummed once against the table of the small conference room they’d commandeered for this emergency meeting. “It will take some time to arrange proper testing,” he said, lips pursed. “The equipment we have is not suitable given these new… circumstances. Still, with what we have we should be able to conduct preliminary tests.”

Across the table, Lan Wangji shifted, obviously unhappy but unwilling to speak out too strongly. Probably wise; from what she’d heard from Wen Yuan’s stories, the tense relationship between Lan Wangji and his uncle tended to turn any disagreement between them into a case of immovable objects and unstoppable forces, the merits of either position be damned. Sitting next to his brother, Lan Xichen was glancing back and forth between the two, clearly aware of the tension and equally clearly uncertain what to do about it.

Nie Mingjue met her eyes and shrugged slightly; he knew he didn’t have the academic credentials to challenge Lan Qiren’s insistence on trying to proceed as if nothing had really changed.

That was fine. She did.

“We need to sort out the personnel situation before we worry about equipment,” she said. “First and foremost: anyone in contact with Wei Wuxian must agree to stay in quarantine for the duration.”

Predictably, Lan Qiren bristled. “Doctor Wen, I am head of the Yiling Laozu project,” he snapped.

Doctor, not Miss. That was one good thing about working with Lan Qiren. The man was as stiff as a pillar of ice and about as warm, but as far as he cared, she was a credentialed professional. He didn’t object to her because she was a woman, he just objected because she wasn’t Lan Qiren.

Too bad. “Yes. Doctor. Which means, Director Lan, that I am the one responsible for dictating safety measures for the project as necessary.”

Lan Qiren pursed his lips, which didn’t quite hide the seething. Because she did have that authority, and they both knew it. “I do not think the remote chance of some medieval flu…”

“It’s not the researchers I’m worried for,” she interrupted dryly.

Lan Qiren actually spluttered.

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand,” Lan Xichen said, stepping in as his uncle fumed. “You just said he was healthy.”

“He’s alive,” she said dryly. “He’s not malnourished, dehydrated, or hypothermic.”

Which made no sense. He’d been frozen. But Wen Qing was a doctor and a scientist. If your data wasn’t what you expected, you didn’t just ignore it and pretend all was normal.

“As far as physical fitness goes, he could probably qualify for the Olympics sight-unseen,” she added. Then she paused, deliberate and pointed. “And his immune system is approximately one thousand five hundred years out of date.” She didn’t cross her arms, simply rested her hands on the table as she looked at Lan Xichen, then turned her gaze to meet Lan Qiren’s eyes steadily. “Anyone who wants to be in a room with Wei Wuxian will be required to undergo an initial quarantine and maintain it for the duration of their contact until he is vaccinated. This is non-optional.”

Thank goodness A’Ning was used to procedures like this; it wasn’t common, but it did come up on occasion in her work both as a doctor and a medical researcher. Her little brother was already expecting her to all but live in the labs for a month or two during the initial phases of the Yiling Laozu project, especially if anything went wrong.

Not that “wrong” was quite how she would frame “our research subject turned out to not be dead,” but it was an unanticipated outcome that was going to take a great deal of her time. Luckily, she and A’Ning had already gone over the NDA she’d signed; he wouldn’t worry if she sent him a very vague note explaining that he’d have the apartment to himself for a while.

Well, no. He’d worry. A’Ning always worried. But he’d mostly be worrying about whether or not she’d remember to eat and sleep properly.

Lan Xichen blinked. “Doctor Wen, are you truly suggesting we ask the entire Yiling Laozu project to be quarantined? Surely that’s a little unreasonable.”

“I’m not suggesting,” Wen Qing told him, very deliberately not snapping. She understood what he was trying to do – act as a very necessary peacemaker at a table full of stubborn personalities. It was a thankless job. However. “I am telling you that as the medical authority here, those are the requirements for anyone who wants to interact directly with Wei Wuxian.”

“Ridiculous!” Lan Qiren exploded, face red as volcanic lava. “You’re making us entirely upend our research schedule for fear of a few sniffles!”

Your schedule is already so much scrap, you old pedant, you just don’t want to accept it.

“Would you like me to quote the mortality rate of the common cold for people with compromised immune systems or no previous exposure?” she asked. Maybe a little more tartly than was wise, but Lan Qiren was an archaeologist and a historian, he knew this. “Diseases and immunity are a perpetual arms race. Wei Wuxian probably has some baseline resistance to the common diseases of his time, and that’s going to do him no good against the modern versions. To say nothing of anything from the Americas, or the diseases that only originated after he froze. So yes. I am, in fact, worried about a few sniffles.”

“Yiling Laozu survived being frozen and you worry about that?!”

Well. At least the man had admitted to the presence of the elephant in the room, even if he was still refusing to look it in the eye.

“I have no idea how he survived,” she said flatly. “There is no medical explanation I can think of. Which means I have no idea if his miraculous survival translates to an equally miraculous immune system. Which means that the principle of do no harm requires me to assume that it does not, and therefore I am taking no chances until I can conduct the proper tests, and preferably administer the most critical vaccines.”

Here she paused, because this was the real elephant in the room, and she wasn’t certain Lan Qiren or Lan Xichen had even realized it was there. Whether that was due to being overwhelmed, denial, or deliberately ignoring the implications, however… She didn’t know.

So she would simply spell it out. “And I’m not doing any of that to a man who cannot understand anything I’m saying and thus cannot give informed consent in anything resembling an ethically acceptable manner.”

She was a researcher, yes, but first and foremost she was a doctor. She’d sworn oaths, dammit.

Besides. Ethics aside, she’d be an idiot to try taking a blood sample from a man whose medical knowledge came from somewhere circa 500 CE. The wall already had one human-sized dent in it; that was more than enough. For that matter, given all the other impossibilities that had decided to become not so impossible today, it was entirely possible that there were damn good reasons for him to be wary of letting someone take his blood.

It was enough to make the doctor in her want to scream with vexation. On two counts, really. The medical researcher because there was so much potential knowledge dangling just beyond her grasp. Wei Wuxian’s survival. The reflexes that had let him catch a bullet barehanded – not to mention the fact that he hadn’t torn his hand apart in the attempt as physics should have dictated.

Hell. If she was going to be purely mercenary, there were any number of women who would cheerfully commit bank robbery and possibly murder to get their hands on the secret of that lovely long hair.

Meanwhile, the physician side of her was screaming in frustration for an entirely different reason. Wei Wuxian was, for all intents and purposes, her patient. How was she supposed to treat him when she couldn’t even check if he had any allergies?

For all I know, he’s lactose intolerant!

Which didn’t even get into the problem of where the man could stay. For now, he was still in the lab where they’d thawed him, with Wen Yuan keeping him company. But that was no living space, and there weren’t actual living spaces in the building. And they couldn’t exactly give him a dorm room or put him up in a hotel!

Focus. That’s a problem for later. Get through this, first.

Lan Qiren swung a furious hand in Lan Wangji’s direction. “Then have him explain!”

“Not possible,” Lan Wangji said, joining the conversation for the first time.

“Why not?” Lan Xichen asked, in a calmly curious tone that would have been far more convincing if not for how hastily he’d jumped to answer as Lan Qiren’s red-faced fury deepened to almost purple. “You speak the language…”

“I do not,” Lan Wangji corrected, still level and uncompromising but slightly less clipped than before. “I can decipher written documents and extrapolate pronunciation based on linguistic recreation, but our knowledge comes from written sources. The classical written language reflected language as it was spoken hundreds of years before his time. Vernacular grammar, vocabulary and pronunciations were already significantly changed. And the most careful reconstruction of even the classical language remains only educated approximation.”

Lan Qiren snorted. “Less educated and more approximate, apparently,” he huffed.

“But you did communicate with him…” Lan Xichen said, this time sounding honestly confused.

“In a limited manner. Single words, using terms that have not greatly shifted in meaning, clarified by context.” Lan Wangji looked down at the piece of paper in front of him, portraits and bunnies and all. “A shared reference is key. The Confucian interpretations of the Shi Jing were set in the Han period. He is educated. He knows them. That allows for some more complicated concepts…”

“But I kind of doubt vaccine is anywhere in there,” Nie Mingjue said wryly. “Might get plague or worry about disease, but that’s not going to get you to needles squirting stuff into you good. Or MRI, for that matter.”

Hm. Careful not to take her attention from the discussion, Wen Qing tapped a note into her computer. Injections would be a hard sell, yes, but there were other ways to administer inoculations. Ancient medicine wasn’t really her area of study, but she vaguely recalled from a medical trivia game during pre-med that some of them were much older than you’d think. Possibly old enough.

Of course, even if they had existed in his time, that didn’t automatically mean Wei Wuxian would know about them. The dissemination of information would have been so much slower and patchier with the only printing being carved blocks and hand-copies – even more so in an era with no central authority to collect, protect, and most importantly train people using the texts in question. But if she could track down where those references came from, that might give Lan Wangji the necessary vocabulary to at least start with.

Meanwhile, Nie Mingjue’s dry joke had apparently succeeded in its purpose. For a moment Lan Qiren had looked like he was going to shout again, but instead he closed his eyes, still visibly fuming, and drew in a long, deliberate breath through his nose. Held it.

Let it go in an aggravated huff. “Reasonable,” he gritted, as if the word physically pained him. For that matter, admitting that anything in the whole situation was reasonable probably did. “How long will it take before you can proceed with your tests, Doctor Wen?”

Wen Qing traded a quick glance at Lan Wangji, just a flicker of eyes meeting. “I don’t know,” she said bluntly. “There’s not exactly much precedent for this situation. However, given the circumstances, I would suggest we assume two months as a minimum.”

Technically, they could probably start sooner. But no matter how brilliant Wei Wuxian was – and the answer was obviously very – language acquisition in any meaningful form took time, even with total immersion. Even more so with no real shared language to serve as a touchstone in case of confusion. And she was not going to conduct any testing beyond the bare minimum required for safety until she was able to hold an actual conversation with the man.

“Two…” Another deep breath as Lan Qiren stroked his beard. “…Very well. Wangji, I expect you to begin work on this immediately. I will inform the rest of the project team.”

Wen Qing looked down at her notes and allowed herself a deep breath of her own. She still wasn’t confident that Lan Qiren had actually heard what she’d been trying to say, but she also knew that there was a limit to how much they could push right now.

Hopefully it would be enough. Lan Qiren could be inflexible, but he had equally rigid moral standards. Surely, once the shock passed, he would recognize that the entire research plan would have to be completely reconsidered in light of this.

Hopefully. But she intended to keep a very close eye on how this developed.

“Something else you’d better think about as well,” Nie Mingjue said grimly. “And that’s how you’re going to present this to the public.”

Lan Qiren frowned, although at least he had lost the volcanic edge. “We have no results yet.”

“Pretty sure he’s alive is one hell of a result already,” Nie Mingjue countered. “More to the point, you know perfectly well that it’s going to set off a firestorm when it gets out, Professor – which means you need to get ahead of the situation now, before someone leaks it.”

The frown deepened. “Everyone in the project team has signed a non-disclosure agreement.”

“So did Su Minshan,” Nie Mingjue retorted. “And he might even abide by it; courage isn’t his strongest trait. But spite definitely is, and the only reason he’s not out on his ear yet is because someone gave him live ammunition and I intend to know who.”

“Security personnel issues are your concern, Officer,” Lan Qiren countered crisply. And then, uncharacteristically, allowed himself to slump slightly. “But your point is taken. We will eventually need to explain the situation to our donors.”

“And the public,” Nie Mingjue pressed. “Like it or not, Professor, this is a project that’s drawn international attention. You won’t be able to keep the politics – or the press – in the dark forever. He paused. “And if you think that crowd at the front gates is bad now…”

Lan Qiren snorted his disdain for public opinion daring to interfere with his Science. “That is also your concern,” he countered, with the disinterest of a man who lived on the extensive grounds of the university and thus did not have to make his way past the protestors on a regular basis. “Regardless, those are concerns for later.”

Wen Qing carefully did not raise an eyebrow. Because maybe Lan Qiren thought he could maintain iron control over his research team – for that matter, it was entirely possible that he could; he had a reputation as a manager who tolerated no trouble, and in the hardheaded and prideful world of upper academia that was no small thing.

But while he was being patient with them for now, it was already abundantly clear that Wei Wuxian was too resourceful, capable, intelligent and most of all inquisitive to stay anywhere he didn’t want to.

Somehow, she didn’t think Lan Qiren was considering that.

Stepping out of the conference room, Lan Wangji glanced at the elevator, hesitating for a heartbeat. Then he passed it by, making for the stairs at the end of the hallway.

To be honest, he preferred stairs anyway. Irritating jokes about never skipping leg day by his graduate cohort aside, he’d always found physical exercise grounding, a pleasant and necessary counter to the intensely cerebral nature of his chosen field of study.

More importantly, the physical effort would allow him to work off some of the seething fury still roiling in his stomach. He would not walk into that lab fuming. His temper had no place in that room, and Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian deserved better.

His uncle, on the other hand…

Stepping into the stairwell, Lan Wangji grabbed that thought firmly, shook it, and then made himself let it go, just an extra little bit of energy as he started up the stairs.

Perhaps the most frustrating part was that in some ways he could understand his uncle’s struggle. The long and bitter battles they’d had throughout Lan Wangji’s adulthood – over his major, his research, his life choices – had ironically taught him that he and his uncle were far more like each other than he’d ever dreamed as a schoolboy who couldn’t imagine even the possibility of not being like his uncle. Both of them had come to their chosen fields in part because those fields dealt in concrete, verifiable facts, a clear core of data that formed an absolute ground on which to stand. Unlike his brother; Lan Xichen had dutifully completed his degrees in chemistry and physics, yes, but he’d then plunged himself into the managerial and administrative side of the academy while the ink on his doctorate was still drying, with every sign of contentment.

Although Lan Wangji did wonder sometimes if that contentment sprang from true interest, or simply familiarity. Peacemaking between stubborn personalities was a very familiar role for his brother.

But Lan Wangji had always been drawn to oddities in the data, the moments where he could peel back the veil of time ever so slightly, only to catch glimpses and hints of things he would never have predicted.

Lan Qiren did not like the unexpected.

Lan Qiren expected the world to be proper. Orderly. Logical. And when faced with a recalcitrant reality, his inclination was to berate it into submission or simply refuse to acknowledge anything that defied his expectations until it went away.

Lan Wangji understood the mindset. He’d shared it, once. But his uncle’s inclination to stick his head in the sand didn’t change the fact that Wei Wuxian was alive. And that the Yiling Laozu research project had not been designed with a living subject in mind. This was not a problem that would go away if Lan Qiren glowered at it long enough, and to pretend otherwise was simply callous.

Lan Wangji stopped on the landing and made himself take several deep breaths, easily falling into a meditative pattern that – irony – Lan Qiren had taught him as a child. Then he opened the door to the hallway—

And blinked in surprise at the soft, lilting tones drifting in the air.

A dizi? And not a song he knew, although it felt very akin to some of the ancient folk songs he’d studied, first during secondary school as a research project and later as a personal passion.

Intrigued, he followed the music, and was not surprised in the least when it led him to the door of the lab.

One of Nie Mingjue’s officers was standing by the lab. At first, Lan Wangji wondered if the man was asleep – but the moment he approached, the officer’s eyes opened, scanning Lan Wangji with a hard, penetrating stare before warming in recognition.

“Professor Lan. Meeting go well?”

“…Mn.” As well as could be under the circumstances, he supposed. “Did you have problems?”

The guard – Nie Zonghui, if he recalled correctly, a relative of Nie Mingjue’s who had initially recommended the man as head of project security – shrugged. “Some pushy types. I told them they had to wait on Doctor Wen’s permission unless and until your uncle said otherwise. I suspect there’ll be some shouting over that, but hey. I honestly feel more sorry for the shouters.”

True. Wen Qing’s patience was limited.

Nie Zonghui nodded to the bulky bag slung over Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “Need any help with that?”

“Not necessary,” Lan Wangji assured him, and reached out to knock on the lab door.

Immediately, the music stopped – immediately, not the half-second delay of someone scrambling for the pause button. A moment later, Wen Yuan called, “Who is it?”

Well done. “Lan Wangji,” he answered.

A moment later, the heavy latch clicked, and the door opened to reveal a sun-bright smile. “Hello!” Wei Wuxian chirped.

Lan Wangji blinked, startled.

Behind Wei Wuxian, Wen Yuan flushed slightly, although his smile was pleased. “We needed something to do,” he explained. “And, he’s going to have to learn, right? So I figured we could at least cover some of the basics.”

“…Well thought,” Lan Wangji agreed, as Wei Wuxian stepped back to let him enter, still grinning over Lan Wangji’s reaction. Deservedly; although Lan Wangji could hear the unfamiliarity of the word in the care with which Wei Wuxian shaped it, the greeting had been clearly enunciated and perfectly pronounced, without any hesitation over a word the man hadn’t even known a few hours ago.

Although part of that momentary surprise had nothing to do with words. Before, he’d been too worried about Wen Yuan to pay much attention, and Wei Wuxian had been sitting, his height not evident. But it was one thing to know that the man had been estimated to stand over 180 centimeters tall, and another entirely to realize that Wei Wuxian was tall enough to look Lan Wangji in the eye without effort.

Closing the door, Lan Wangji moved to set the heavy bag down and blinked when his eye caught on movement, as Wei Wuxian absently twirled something in his hand. Noticing his interest, the man smiled and held the dizi out for Lan Wangji to get a closer look.

“Did you hear him playing?” Wen Yuan asked eagerly. “We were taking a break, and he pulled that out, and he’s so good!”

“I heard.” And a part of him wanted to rush home and try to recreate it on his guqin, before the tune could slip from his memory. Was it an established song that simply hadn’t survived the centuries? Or had that been the original composition of a well-trained musician who’d lived his life embedded in that musical tradition?

That Wei Wuxian was trained was obvious – and to be expected. He was clearly well-educated in the old manner, and that would have meant mastery of music as well as literature and philosophy and etiquette and martial skills. But the choice of a dizi was interesting; it suggested he enjoyed music enough to opt for a simple and portable instrument, rather than something heavier and more prestigious.

It was a beautiful instrument. On closer inspection, what he’d taken for black lacquer appeared to be the natural color of the original bamboo, polished to bring out a hint of red that he’d never seen in black bamboo before and accented by an auspicious red cord woven around a small silver charm in the tassel.

He wondered if the bamboo grove the dizi had been made from even existed anymore. Or even the specific subspecies.

Although it did raise an interesting question. Lan Wangji had perused the descriptions of the man in the ice extensively, and done several of his own, looking for anything that might yield hints about Yiling Laozu’s identity. Given his own interest in music, it was odd that he’d never found any mention of a flute among the man’s belongings.

“How did the meeting go?” Wen Yuan asked.

“Well enough,” Lan Wangji said judiciously, nodding his thanks to Wei Wuxian. “The director agreed to set a quarantine.”

Reluctantly, perhaps, but Lan Qiren was a man of his word, at least. Whatever his own thoughts on the matter, once he had agreed to something, he would see it done, and done properly.

Wen Yuan relaxed slightly. “That’s good. I’d hate for him to have gone through all of this, just to get sick.” He hesitated. “Is this okay, then? Us being in here, I mean.”

“He’s already been exposed to us.” Better to take a small chance where the harm had already been done rather than to force the man into complete isolation when he was already under stress.

Reaching down, Lan Wangji began working the drawstring of the bag open. After a moment, Wei Wuxian tucked the dizi into the sash at his belt and ducked down to help with the stubborn cord – ah, and that answered the question of how no one had seen it despite so much careful observation; frozen in the ice, the wide sleeve of his outer robe must have obscured the flute.

Wei Wuxian’s face brightened as Lan Wangji pulled out the first of the blankets, but Wen Yuan looked aghast. “Wait – are they really going to make him sleep in here?” His eyes darted around the lab, taking in the hard tile floor, the cold, harsh glare of the industrial lights, the dull gleam of steel from cabinets and lab benches and the flat slab of the thawing table.

Lan Wangji had to fight back a grimace. As a lab dedicated to the study of a rare bioarchaeological specimen, it was state-of-the-art; Lan Qiren had spared no expense for the project. As housing space for a living man, it was sorely lacking. “For tonight, at least. Wen Qing is exploring alternatives.”

Exploring, but he had an unpleasant suspicion that this would not be a one-night arrangement. Wen Qing was unfortunately correct that they needed to keep Wei Wuxian under medical observation for a few days, at least, in case there were any delayed effects from his sudden awakening (and freezing). And unfortunately, there weren’t many options safely within the heightened security of the project. Especially given the need to keep Wei Wuxian quarantined long enough to find some way to explain why the quarantine was necessary.

Lan Wangji was uncomfortably aware that Wei Wuxian’s situation looked far too much like that of a prisoner rather than a patient or a guest. Particularly when he pictured it from Wei Wuxian’s perspective, with no knowledge of where he was or who they were or even how he’d gotten into this strange situation in the first place.

At least they weren’t locking him in – in fact, the lab couldn’t be locked so as not to open from the inside, it would violate fire safety codes. But Nie Mingjue had stationed a guard at the door for more reasons than keeping overexcited project researchers at bay.

No, he didn’t like the situation at all. He just didn’t know what else they could do.

Wen Yuan started to worry at the corner of his lip, then quickly caught himself when Wei Wuxian glanced at him, eyes just a little too sharp, clearly having caught the tone of the conversation if not the content. “I just… there isn’t even a bathroom. Isn’t that bad?”

Ah. Lan Wangji felt his ears heat up. Wen Yuan was right, that was not good at all. It simply hadn’t occurred to him to think of it.

Perhaps his uncle was not the only one struggling to wrap his mind around the idea of Wei Wuxian as a living, breathing person.

“I will arrange for a chamber pot of some kind,” he said, quickly running his mind through his options. It wasn’t ideal, but at least it should be a familiar arrangement for Wei Wuxian. Explaining how modern facilities worked might take some doing.

Even if the added loss of privacy made him want to wince all over again, because the lab had been specifically designed for visibility. There was not exactly a discrete corner available for necessary business.

At least Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue were the only ones who would be able to directly access the camera recordings. Those two, at least, he trusted to respect the boundaries the situation was involuntarily violating.

Wheels squeaked in the hallway outside, and Lan Wangji allowed himself a breath of relief. Wen Qing had said she would try to acquire one of the portable cots kept on hand by the medical research staff in case of emergencies; apparently she’d succeeded. So at least they would not have to ask Wei Wuxian to sleep on the table meant to thaw the ice that had preserved what they’d thought was his corpse. Somehow, that just seemed too macabre.

Not to mention potentially dangerous. The equipment should have been shut down and disabled. But Wei Wuxian was intelligent, clever, curious… and very likely to be in need of something to fill his time. A dangerous combination.

If Wen Yuan hadn’t included “dangerous” and “don’t touch” in the basics he’d introduced, they would need to rectify that omission.

At least for now, the man seemed content with investigating things as they were presented to him, running his fingers across the simple woolen blankets to study the weave and watching with interest as Lan Wangji unfolded the cot, even crouching down to study the understructure of the cot and flapping his hands at Lan Wangji until he figured out that Wei Wuxian wanted him to take it down and set it up again so he could watch the mechanisms in action.

Lan Wangji was somewhat surprised to find that he didn’t find the added delay at all aggravating. There was something guilelessly charming about that bright-eyed interest in absolutely everything. And for his part, watching that quick mind observe and work to make sense of everything was…

Lan Wangji was well aware that many people in the modern era vaguely assumed, somewhere in the backs of their minds, that the people of past eras must have been somehow intrinsically different in some way. More noble, less analytically intelligent, simpler, something. He’d lost count of the students who were utterly appalled at the thought that, yes, that really was a raunchy double entendre in their classical poetry. And no few of his colleagues with the same assumptions, proving that it was not just a matter of youth and inexperience.

Lan Wangji thought he’d managed to avoid that particular bias, at least. But… watching Wei Wuxian study the way Lan Wangji locked one of the wheels in place so that it wouldn’t roll out of place and then reach out to try it himself on one of the other wheels, tilting his head as he assessed the pressure required to push the locking lever into place…

Lan Wangji couldn’t deny that it felt the way it might if a kirin or phoenix descended from the skies to drink from his garden pond some early morning. Half afraid to even breathe for fear of startling it away – or worse, waking from the dream, because as much as he wanted it to be, surely this wasn’t real…

Fortunately, Wei Wuxian was not a phantasm, nor a jumpy mythical creature. The sharp rapping on the door that pulled Lan Wangji out of his thoughts didn’t even make the man blink as he began helping Wen Yuan make the cot up with sheets and blankets – although, again, “help” might be slightly overstating his usefulness, given the man’s frequent distraction as he poked at the pillow with a baffled expression.

Opening the door, Lan Wangji found Wen Qing waiting in the hallway with a rolling cart carrying three trays holding an array of covered dishes.

“You were successful, then?” he asked.

Wen Qing pursed her lips. “These are the safest options I could find,” she replied. “We’re lucky Cloud Recesses always keeps traditional dishes on hand. There shouldn’t be anything in these that he hasn’t encountered before. So hopefully if he does have any allergies to something, it will be one that he already knows to avoid.”

Safe, Lan Wangji noted, apparently meant extremely basic. Probably a necessary precaution; even the traditional options would include sauces and ingredients that had been introduced hundreds of years after Wei Wuxian’s time. There was nothing inherently wrong with simple fare; Lan Wangji had grown up eating a very similar cuisine, modeled after the diets of Buddhist and Daoist monks. But he was well aware that it was not going to do anything to help the impression that they were treating Wei Wuxian as a prisoner.

Which was likely why there were three trays; by sharing the meal, they could at least offer the hospitality of company, and hopefully avoid any impression that the plain fare was intended as an insult. “Will you be joining us, then?”

Wen Qing shook her head. “It would be counterproductive,” she explained. “I don’t even have the little bits and pieces of the classical language that A’Yuan has. If I’m in the room, I’ll just end up talking to you and A’Yuan and end up shutting Wei Wuxian out of the conversation. Let’s keep things simple for now.” She tilted her head. “Have you tried talking to him yet?”

“Not yet. After the meal.” Especially since they were well beyond lunch and moving rapidly into the realm of dinner. The thawing had started early in the morning, but in the subsequent chaos, he was fairly certain that none of them had remembered such banal things as food. They would all benefit from sustenance to take the edge off tired tempers.

Not to mention that Wen Yuan was a teenager and thus “starving” was more or less his default state of existence. He normally kept snacks on hand to fend it off, but he had doubtless been hesitant to pull out a chocolate bar when he had no idea if he could safely share it.

Which reminded him. “We also need to make arrangements regarding… sanitation.”

Wen Qing blinked, nonplussed – and then closed her eyes as she slapped her forehead with a sound of utter frustration. “Ugh. I’ve been so focused on everything else…” Sighing, she let her hand drop. “Right. Chamberpots were used in his time, right? I’ll see what I can do. And maybe see about getting a privacy screen set up so we can block at least some of the cameras.” She snorted. “I can hear the whining now.”

Lan Wangji looked at her.

“What was his last meal? It’s what everyone seems to want to know about ancient bodies. Bog bodies, Ötzi, Peruvian ice mummies…” She huffed. “I know there are scientists on the project who planned to make a splash by publishing the first paper on what was in his gut.”

“We could offer them the contents of the chamber pot,” Lan Wangji said, straight-faced.

Nie Zonghui made a desperate I’m-pretending-not-to-listen-but-oh-ancestors noise, while Wen Qing laughed sharply. “Don’t tempt me. After all, surely his gut contents are as well-preserved as the rest of him.”

Rather, they had to hope that they were. Otherwise the situation was going to become very critical very quickly – which was one of the reasons Wen Qing wanted to keep the man under observation.

She sighed. “But no. That’s too invasive for me to be comfortable with. They’ll just have to resign themselves to actually asking the man what he ate, like we do with anyone else.” She shook her head. “So. Chamberpot, and figure out a better solution when we can. And while we’re at it, bathing facilities as well. I don’t think there are any showers in the building outside the emergency ones, and those are definitely not useful if you actually want to be clean.” She waved a hand. “Never mind. We’ll manage something. Go eat; I’ll be taking over one of the desks in the observation office for a while, in case you need me for anything.”

Meaning all he would need to do would be to activate the intercom between the rooms – or just shout to Nie Zonghui through the door – should something go wrong. That was… something of a relief. The situation might feel unreal, but they had to be careful to avoid making assumptions.

He pulled the cart into the lab and turned to see Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian tidying up the notebooks and pencils scattered across the thawing platform, which was the closest thing they had to a table. Once a space was cleared, Lan Wangji transferred the trays to it and began uncovering the various dishes and setting out the bowls, cups and chopsticks stacked in the lower compartment.

Wen Qing had included tea. Not only a brewed pot ready to drink, but also leaves and an electric kettle to heat water for more. Truly the compassion of a doctor by calling.

Or perhaps simply an apology for the food. Apparently Wen Qing had opted for extremely simple; plain rice, tofu in a clear broth, simple steamed vegetables and greens, plain chicken. No seasonings except for salt and pepper. All cooked well, of course. And a good choice if the goal was to keep ingredients easily recognizable and thus avoidable if needed. But not exactly the stuff of culinary dreams.

Although Wei Wuxian seemed to find the spread oddly fascinating. On the other hand, perhaps that was not so odd at all. In a time without the conveniences of modern storage technology and international shipping, there would be a great deal of information encoded in even such simple things as fruits and vegetables. The season. The region. Even subtle things, like the local environment.

The university tried to buy local as much as possible, as a matter of principle and good regional relations. As did Lan Wangji, out of personal preference. But he’d never really paid truly close attention to it, confident that certain staples would always be readily available as needed. And, of course, local meant something very different in the time of automobiles and refrigeration – and there were limits to how much local production could cover, when feeding an entire university.

He wondered what Wei Wuxian made of what he saw. Was he trying to gauge how long he had been unaware of the world, using the produce available to get a sense of the season? Were there strange combinations of things that should not be in season at the same time at all?

Even the rice was subject to the same inquisitive scrutiny, Wei Wuxian poking at it with his chopsticks before deftly plucking out a few grains to nibble at them quizzically. Which… made sense, actually. In his time, rice agriculture had still been slowly making its way north from where it had begun in the Yangtze basin in the south. And it was unlikely that this particular variety of rice had even existed in Wei Wuxian’s time.

Not to mention, this was plain, machine-polished white rice. Utterly basic by modern standards. And from the perspective of a time when polishing fundamentally had to be done by hand, it surely looked like an incredible luxury compared to the simplicity of everything else. Small wonder the man seemed so quizzical.

…Or perhaps he was simply wondering why Lan Wangji was simply standing there watching him, he realized suddenly, as Wen Yuan sat down on one of the work stools that Lan Wangji hadn’t even noticed him fetching and cast a quick, confused glance that wasn’t quite subtle enough at Lan Wangji. Feeling his ears heating again, Lan Wangji quickly sat down and picked up his own chopsticks.

The meal was quiet. Lan Wangji ate without speaking out of habit; his uncle had been strict about such things when he was a child. And once his investigation was done, Wei Wuxian began eating with the focus of someone who had not eaten for some time. Come to think of it, perhaps he had not, even within his extremely foreshortened subjective timeline. After all, he had been carrying no supplies with him in the ice, only what he was wearing. Perhaps he had been traveling with others, and gotten separated from his company. If that had happened some time before he had frozen, then hunger was to be expected.

Although the man did wrinkle his nose in annoyance when he sipped at the admittedly bland broth. And the moment he discovered the contents of the pepper shaker that had been included, he proceeded to apply it liberally enough that Lan Wangji’s nose was itching in psychosomatic sympathy.

Apparently he prefers strong flavors in food.

A little glimpse into Wei Wuxian as a person, rather than a miraculous relic of the distant past. Something about that felt oddly… charming, actually.

Wen Yuan did sneeze, before turning back to…

Ah. “Wen Yuan,” Lan Wangji said sternly. He’d eaten his fill before the other two, being neither a growing teenager nor a time-displaced traveler. “Do not do homework while eating.”

The boy started, face turning red, and guiltily set the notebook he’d been furtively scribbling equations in next to his neglected rice bowl. “But…” he said weakly.

Wei Wuxian tilted his head, studying the numbers scrawled with uncharacteristic messiness on the pages. Chuckled, and tapped one in particular.

Wen Yuan blinked. And then thumped his head against the open pages. “Augh!” he groaned, groping for his eraser.

Wei Wuxian laughed, picking up his cup to sip at the tea. And then did a double take of his own, blinking at the amber-red liquid. Now why…

Oh. Lan Wangji had forgotten. In Wei Wuxian’s time, tea had still been a medicinal herb and an aid for meditation, not an everyday beverage. And the processing techniques were still being developed. No wonder he found the taste unfamiliar. Yet another tiny detail Lan Wangji hadn’t thought about…

Lan Wangji paused, replaying the exchange in his mind. “Did you teach him Arabic numerals?”

Wen Yuan flushed. “Um. Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I was trying to come up with important phrases for him to know, and then I remembered that in a lot of books and movies, one way bad guys mess with people is by messing with their sense of time. And there aren’t any windows in here, so…” He gestured to the clock next to the covered observation window, the digital display announcing the time in stark white on black numerals.

Not an intuitive thing to read, no. It only felt that way through years of familiarity. Even if the readout were in the traditional characters, it would not have made sense to Wei Wuxian.

“And the mathematical symbols?”

Wen Yuan had relaxed somewhat, now that he knew he wouldn’t be chided for drawing inspiration from action movies and spy novels. “Well… We’d gone over the numbers, and then I realized that I didn’t actually know how to convert the time system. I mean, I get the basics, but I know that the old system changed a few times, and I wasn’t sure I remembered which version he’d know. I don’t want to tell him something only to make him even more confused because it turned out I’d gotten it wrong. And I didn’t want to pull out my phone to check when that would just be even more confusing for him.”

Probably wise, and certainly thoughtful. Lan Wangji nodded slightly in approval, and made a mental note to speak to Wen Qing about the matter. A sense of time was important to mental health, and so was access to daylight and living things. Yet another reason this entire situation was less than ideal.

“But since we’d done the numbers already, and I’d pulled out my textbooks when I was looking for an empty notebook…” Wen Yuan shrugged, smiling ruefully. “We both wanted to take a break by then, I think. So we kind of messed with my math stuff for a bit. Just little things, mostly.”

“Ah.” And now that he looked closer, the mistake Wei Wuxian had caught was a multiplication error. Which was still daunting, given that he’d had to learn a new system of symbols… but come to think of it, Chinese scholars had been using a positional numbering system since at least the 800s. Which was still relatively late for their estimate of Wei Wuxian’s era, but who was to say that the system had not been in use on a less official basis earlier still?

Which didn’t make what he’d done any less impressive, given that Wen Yuan was working with pre-calculus. Impressive enough that Wei Wuxian had realized that there was a problem, but to then parse through a system of signs that was still new to him, with the added distraction of other signs he did not know following unfamiliar rules…

If nothing else, the man clearly possessed a gift for processing complex information, visually and mentally, very quickly.

Wen Yuan was still watching him anxiously, doubtlessly worried that he might have overstepped. Lan Wangji did not let it show on his face – but internally, he huffed to himself. Doubtless there were those who would complain that teaching Wei Wuxian the basic skills he would need to simply function in the modern world would somehow “corrupt” the man. As if a living, breathing, thinking man could somehow be preserved in a featureless lab away from all modern influences, the way he had once been preserved in ice.

He wondered how many of those complaints would come from the exact same people who had pushed the hardest for Yiling Laozu to be thawed for study in the first place. More than a few, no doubt.

Still. He might sympathize with Wen Yuan’s efforts, but… He tapped the notebook reprovingly. “If you are distracted enough to make basic arithmetic errors, you are too distracted to study.”

“But…!” Wen Yuan looked at him beseechingly for a minute, but when Lan Wangji’s steady stare refused to waver, he drooped. “…Yes, Professor Lan,” he said, closing notebook and textbook and obediently setting them aside.

Lan Wangji studied the boy’s slumped shoulders thoughtfully. It was unlike Wen Yuan to worry about his studies. He worked hard to keep his grades up, of course, attending summer prep classes with the same rigor and focus he dedicated to his regular schoolwork. But he had always approached his schooling with a steady, calm confidence that likely did more for his results than endless cram sessions ever could.

Not that he necessarily needed to worry about exams. Lan Wangji had never spoken of it with the boy, but he was well aware that his uncle fully intended to pull whatever strings were needed to sponsor Wen Yuan to come to Cloud Recesses, no matter what his results in the Gaokao. Not that knowing would have changed anything about the boy’s work ethic.

But Wen Yuan was sixteen. Still more than a year away from the university exams. And for him to be worrying about homework here, now, under circumstances such as this…

Waiting for Wen Yuan to meet his eyes again, Lan Wangji raised an eyebrow ever so slightly.

Wen Yuan looked down at the table. “…I thought, maybe, if I could get ahead on everything, show I could keep my grades up, Director Lan might let me keep helping with the project. Especially since things are kind of… different than expected.” He sighed. “I guess that was stupid. I can’t go to classes and stay quarantined, school is basically the opposite of quarantine.”

“Wen Qing and I spoke,” Lan Wangji told him. “If you are interested, I believe we can offer an internship.”

Nie Mingjue had actually been the first to suggest it. “Kid’s already in the thick of this,” he’d pointed out bluntly. “You can try sidelining him at this point, I suppose. But also, if you want to convince Wei Wuxian that he’s safe with us? Letting the kid who jumped between him and the angry guys with weapons hang out with him is going to work like nothing else.”

Perhaps more importantly, Wei Wuxian seemed to be fond of Wen Yuan, if Lan Wangji read the affection softening the man’s clear amusement as he watched their exchange correctly. Had Wei Wuxian had a younger brother, perhaps? Or even a son of his own; he seemed young for such things even by ancient standards, but given the turbulence of the era…

Lan Wangji hoped not. Learning how much time had passed while he was in the ice would be hard enough, without the added burden of having left a child behind in the distant past.

Of course, it all depended on whether or not Wen Yuan wanted to stay with the project. Nie Mingjue’s confidence aside, it would have been perfectly reasonable for Wen Yuan to have reservations. The boy had been shot at, after all, and by a man whose first priority should have been to protect him.

But apparently that was not an obstacle.

“Wen Qing believes she can arrange for your summer school to be done remotely.” Lan Wangji met the boy’s wide eyes. “This is contingent on you maintaining high marks. You must also maintain quarantine, which will require staying here in Cloud Recesses for the remainder of the summer.”

Wen Yuan nodded without hesitation. “And when the school year starts?”

Good. He was thinking about the fact that this was not a short term commitment. “We will reassess.”

Wen Yuan’s regular school was unlikely to be so flexible about remote learning. Which was appropriate. School was as much a matter of social learning as intellectual. But the boy was also correct in noting that a crowded school full of teenagers mingling was effectively the opposite of a quarantine. With luck, by then Wen Qing would have come up with an immunization regimen to allow safer interaction, and they would have progressed far enough in communication to actually explain and start the process. But such regimens took time to be effective. Most likely, Wen Yuan would have to withdraw from direct participation in the project for at least a month or two once school started. Which, again, was not a bad thing for him.

Which reminded him. “You will not be able to spend time with your friends while quarantined.”

Wen Yuan shrugged. “Jin Ling’s grandfather made him fly to Shandong for the summer,” he said. “Zizhen’s family is going to be traveling. And Jingyi was already expecting me to spend a lot of my time here.” His lips quirked, wry and amused. “They’re going to flip out when this all goes public. They’re already pestering me for super-secret inside information, when I told them there are rules about telling people about it…” His cheeks puffed.

“That is all the more important now.”

Wen Yuan nodded solemnly. “I know. It’s not just my friends, everyone is going to flip out. He shouldn’t have to deal with that while he’s still adjusting to being here in the first place!” The boy pursed his lips. “But if I’m staying here, I’m going to need to get my stuff… and that means I’ll need to stay away from him for a while, right? In case I get exposed to something new.”

Lan Wangji nodded. “Caution is best.”

In truth, they were taking a not insubstantial risk with the arrangement as they were. Wen Yuan being a teenager did not only raise issues of exposure and the risk that he might blurt something incautious in a teenage boy’s urge to impress friends. There was no way that some of the scientists on the project wouldn’t object to a teenager – not even a university student! – suddenly being included like this, especially when the researchers themselves had undergone an intensely competitive selection process to be part of the project.

But Nie Mingjue was right that the rapport Wen Yuan had already established with Wei Wuxian would go far in setting the man at ease. And the boy had already demonstrated that he was approaching the situation thoughtfully and conscientiously.

Not to mention that, of the limited circle of individuals currently in the know about this utterly unexpected twist in the project, Wen Yuan was quite possibly the only one outside of Lan Wangji himself who had the necessary cultural and language knowledge to assist. Perhaps he had not trusted his memory of the specific archaic timekeeping system he would need to reference, but at least he had been aware of what he did not know.

Wen Yuan glanced at Wei Wuxian, who was still watching both of them with interest. “If I’m going to be away for a while, though… Is there a way to explain that I’ll be back soon? I don’t want him to think that I just up and left.”

“That should be manageable.” Possibly complicated. Something like that was a bit abstract for what they had accomplished so far, and Lan Wangji was hesitant to use terms that in the classics were frequently associated with soldiers going to war, filial sons returning home to be with dying parents, and forlorn lovers waiting by riverbanks. Still. He should be able to cobble together something. Although he should take his time, to avoid misunderstandings.

“You said you taught him some basics,” he said. “Such as?”

Wen Yuan brightened, grabbing up a different notebook that had been set slightly aside from the others. “Right! I mean, mostly it was basic phrases, but…”

He started to rise off his seat, eagerly pushing the open notebook towards Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji stopped him with a finger pinning the notebook to the table and slanted a pointed look at the bowl of rice still sitting forgotten in front of him.

Wen Yuan flushed slightly – and then significantly redder when his stomach chose that moment to let loose with a surprisingly loud gurgle.

Wei Wuxian laughed as the boy buried his face in his hands, picking up his chopsticks again to transfer some of the remaining vegetables into Wen Yuan’s bowl. Wen Yuan wrinkled his nose at the man, who only grinned wider yet in response, and then picked up his chopsticks with a look of pure determination.

Determination that was only necessary for the first bite, at which point he apparently recalled that not only was he a growing teenage boy who’d missed lunch, but he’d also only picked at his breakfast that morning, too wound up to eat properly. Satisfied, Lan Wangji turned his attention to the notebook.

The first few pages were something of a jumbled mess – quite unlike Wen Yuan’s usual careful notes, but it was obvious even at a glance that these were not so much notes as the working out of what must have begun as an ad hoc and haphazard process.

And a collaborative one. Part of the jumble was obviously the result of two people writing from different angles. Wei Wuxian’s handwriting was easy to identify; flowing, but with odd stutters where his obvious ease with a brush caused him to fumble a pencil – a lifetime of muscle memory was not easily overcome.

Which was likely why, a few pages in, Wei Wuxian had claimed an entire page of the notebook for what seemed to be practice – or perhaps experimentation would be more accurate. He began with the clear, precise clerical script he had used when communicating with Lan Wangji previously, but with each repetition, it was clear that he had deliberately relaxed his style more and more, letting habit guide his hand in the more natural cursive form. Any time a stroke faltered, he’d stopped and repeated the character, clearly testing different holds and familiarizing himself with the style required.

The practice clearly had paid off; by the end of the page, he’d become comfortable enough to write a short passage in the flowing, cursive calligraphy that adorned ancient paintings and bedeviled modern scholars who had to decipher what had actually been written. Although the line broke off strangely, the paper scored slightly as if the pencil had broken—

Lan Wangji felt a bubble of amusement, because he could picture what had happened. Wen Yuan looking over Wei Wuxian’s shoulder to see what he was working on. Blanching at the sight of the dreaded cursive. Wei Wuxian looking up, seeing the expression on the boy’s face, and laughing hard enough that he lost control of the pencil.

Turning the page, Lan Wangji paused. Apparently that break in the language experiments had served as inspiration of sorts; the jumble of the previous pages was replaced by a tidy list of words and short phrases in the archaic script. Each item on the list was accompanied by… something that looked like a garbled version of pinyin, and then the modern script equivalent, along with the appropriate pinyin for each.

By the time, Wen Yuan had finished off the remaining dishes with the voracious speed appropriate to his age, and was draining the last of the tea with a grimace that suggested it had by now gone completely cold. Catching his eye, Lan Wangji set the notebook down on the table, still opened to the list of phrases. “Pinyin?”

Wen Yuan nodded. “I was thinking about that article we read a while back, about language reconstruction? So I tried to write down the old words the way he says them.”

Lan Wangji had to stop at that, struck. He’d been so focused on helping Wei Wuxian communicate, he hadn’t even considered the fact that they had a native speaker of Middle Chinese available now, able to actually answer the questions that scholars had only been able to guess at regarding the old language.

However, Wei Wuxian learning modern Mandarin remained a far more important priority. “And the modern pinyin?”

Wen Yuan had picked up the electric kettle, clearly planning to refresh the tea. “He was curious about the system… and I thought, maybe, as long as it made sense to him, it might help?”

True. It would be difficult to rely on the rime system of pronunciation, given the ways that the language had shifted over a thousand years. Guiding the pronunciation of a character by referencing other characters only worked if one knew how the secondary characters were to be pronounced in the first place.

From the look of the list, Wei Wuxian had grasped the concept easily enough. Several of the later archaic items on it had pronunciations written with a careful hand that was not Wen Yuan’s. It was possible that this was not Wei Wuxian’s first exposure to an alphabetic writing system, at that. His era would have been before the great travels and translations of Buddhist scriptures supported by the Tang, but Sanskrit documents would have been available in some of the still-new monasteries of the time. Lan Wangji doubted that the man actually knew the language – he did not strike Lan Wangji as a monk – but he might at least be aware of the writing system.

Lan Wangji skimmed the list as Wen Yuan filled the kettle from the wash sink in the back of the lab and set it to heat – a process Wei Wuxian was watching with interest, but a remarkable lack of visible shock, or even surprise, even as the water in the kettle reached a murmuring roil without any heat source in evidence. The faucet looked enough like a water pump that perhaps it might be passed over, but… Had there perhaps been some sort of portable water heating device in his time?

Or, Lan Wangji realized with a twinge of guilt, perhaps this entire situation had simply reached the point where any shock or surprise was simply being shoved to the back of the man’s mind, because he couldn’t afford to be overwhelmed at the moment.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much Lan Wangji could do to help, beyond striving not to overwhelm the man even further.

The first words on the list were perfectly reasonable. Hello. Goodbye. What is your name? Stop. Danger. (Good, he’d covered those.) Where, here, there. Food, water. Tired. Hungry. Thirsty. Yes, no.

Nothing complex, and all useful terms. Better, they were terms that, for the most part, could also have their meanings established using reference to physical objects or basic pantomime, which gave them an added check on verifying the correct meanings.

Some of the later terms on the list, however…

Lan Wangji pointedly raised his eyes to meet Wen Yuan’s as the boy returned with the hot water.

Wen Yuan’s smile was artful in its innocence. “People are going to be asking him about his stuff,” he said, not even pretending not to know what Lan Wangji was asking about.

Lan Wangji simply waited. While that was in fact a valid argument, he highly doubted it was the actual reason why sword and dizi were also on the list of “basics.”

Wen Yuan’s innocent smile became slightly sheepish as he poured a fresh cup of tea and handed it to Lan Wangji. “Besides, they’re so cool.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled as he accepted a cup of his own, having been watching their exchange with every sign of being highly amused. Lan Wangji wondered what he’d made of it. It was unlikely he’d picked out many words, but the tenor of the conversation had surely come across.

Nevertheless, they were being rude. Wen Qing had been right; it was all too easy to talk around and about the man, rather than to him. Even though he surely had at least as many questions as they did.

How did they even begin to explain that fifteen hundred years had passed while he had been frozen in the glacier?

No. That was avoiding the true problem. Conveying the basic facts of the matter was far from impossible. He’d already come up with several possible approaches he might take.

But something in him simply rebelled at the thought of simply dropping that information when there was no one Wei Wuxian could even talk to, to help him through such a terrible shock.

I should speak to Wen Qing about this. We would do well to have a psychologist’s assistance, in addition to her skills as a physician. A psychologist might not know the right thing to do – minds and hearts were complex even with a shared cultural context. But one might at least be able to advise them on what not to do, and what approaches were at least potentially helpful.

Caught in his thoughts, Lan Wangji didn’t quite register that he was frowning blankly at the notebook with its list of words until long, slender fingers entered his line of sight and snapped to get his attention. Startled, Lan Wangji looked up.

Wei Wuxian smiled crookedly and wiggled his fingers in an obvious “gimme!” gesture.

Clearly we need to cover please and thank you, Lan Wangji thought disapprovingly. And then felt a sudden rush of shame. It was hardly Wei Wuxian’s fault that he didn’t yet know how to formulate a request in the modern language. And etiquette was far more complex than simple rote words, with layers of nuance surrounding their proper use. It was likely that Wei Wuxian was far better at social graces than Lan Wangji himself; Lan Wangji had always simply fallen back on stiff formality in all circumstances, while Wei Wuxian had lived in a world of inflexible hierarchies and competing warlords, where being impolite or even polite to the wrong person at the wrong moment could easily have lethal consequences. Considered in that light, the man’s casual air was an act of trust, in a strange way.

Nodding, Lan Wangji slid the notebook across the table, rewarded by a bright grin before Wei Wuxian picked up the pencil Wen Yuan had dropped and quickly wrote something before sliding the notebook back to show he’d added the character for “father” to the list.

Lan Wangji listened carefully as Wei Wuxian reached across the table and tapped the new entry, pronouncing it in his own version of Chinese. Lan Wangji listened carefully, and then wrote the pronunciation out, suddenly grateful for the linguistics classes he’d taken as part of his doctorate that had included learning the International Phonetic Alphabet. Wen Yuan’s efforts with pinyin were admirable, but there were some subtle changes in the sounds as Wei Wuxian said them that pinyin was not designed to accurately reflect.

Although the word and character for father had apparently remained relatively stable over the centuries; there weren’t many changes compared to some of the other words on the list. Which made sense; family terms tended to be less prone to drift over time.

Even so, Wei Wuxian listened carefully as Lan Wangji pronounced the modern form, repeating it carefully. And then reclaimed the notebook before Lan Wangji could write the pinyin to add that part himself, although he looked at the IPA that Lan Wangji had added with open curiosity.

…Ah. That may have been a mistake. He’d been thinking of recording the pronunciation for posterity, but there was also a practical aspect to using the pinyin for Wei Wuxian that he’d overlooked. And there was no point in trying to teach yet another system at this point. Fortunately, Wei Wuxian seemed to accept Lan Wangji’s shaken head when the man looked at him in query – was that a gesture he’d already known, or had he figured it out from context? – and simply added the character for “son” before returning the notebook to repeat the process.

Lan Wangji expected him to continue asking about words. Instead, once they had verified the words for father and son, Wei Wuxian sat back – and pointed at Lan Wangji and Wen Yuan, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

Which… made sense, after that first moment of blank surprise. Hadn’t Lan Wangji just been thinking that Wei Wuxian had lived in a hierarchical society, one of the last ages when noble clans had held real power and jockeyed amongst themselves to accumulate more and expand beyond their own strongholds? Knowing who was related to whom, and in what manner, wasn’t just a matter of etiquette but also alliances and enmities and strategy. Of course the man would be trying to figure out how they were connected to each other.

For an uncomfortably long moment, Lan Wangji was tempted to say yes. It was not that he had not considered it. Wei Wuxian was far from the first to make that assumption. And Wen Yuan had mentioned the possibility once or twice, in the wistful wouldn’t-it-be-crazy-if…? tone of a teenager contemplating a dream he would have liked to make reality.

However. Much as he might like to claim the boy as his son, Lan Wangji was not Wen Yuan’s father, and he did not want Wei Wuxian’s first question to him to be answered with a lie.

Picking up pencil and notebook, Lan Wangji went to write his answer, and paused. “Teacher and student” might seem straightforward enough, but there were multiple ways of expressing such a relationship, and each carried its own particular nuances.

After considering the options carefully, Lan Wangji turned to a blank page and wrote the characters for “teaching master” and “student.” Hopefully Wei Wuxian knew enough about the Han dynasty’s exam system to understand the general image, although of course in the man’s own time there would have been no imperial exams due to the absence of a functional empire.

Then, next to that, he added the characters for “master” and “disciple.” He wasn’t entirely comfortable with that reference – it felt too much like he was putting himself into the same category as Master Kong. But it captured the less formal and more personal relationship between him and Wen Yuan, better than the first phrase.

That done, he circled the terms, grouping them together. And hesitated again. He and Wen Yuan had never really articulated their relationship in concrete terms. On paper, Lan Wangji was Wen Yuan’s sponsor and supervisor – but that was a matter of paperwork for Wen Yuan’s initial participation in the Yiling Laozu project. Their actual relationship had simply grown naturally over the as a matter of shared interests and comfortable temperaments, a mutual love of the lost past and its mysteries – and, yes, occasionally offering advice, guidance, reassurance and a willingness to listen for a maturing young man who lacked in stable adult presences in his life.

Finally, he settled on “patron,” which was… perhaps incomplete, but accurate enough. When he looked at Wen Yuan for confirmation, there was a rueful cast to the boy’s smile, suggesting his thoughts were running on similar lines, but he nodded his agreement readily enough.

Turning back to Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji was surprised to realize that the man’s attention on them, not the notebook, studying their faces thoughtfully as though that were the true source of information. And… perhaps, in a way, that was accurate. Doubtless Lan Wangji’s hesitations had told the man that the answer he was being given was somewhat… uncertain.

Then Wei Wuxian reached over to claim the notebook again. Rather than turning back to the vocabulary list they had been developing, however, he added something to the page Lan Wangji had used.

Lan Wangji’s own name. Followed by…

Gusu Lan?

Lan Wangji studied the characters, puzzled. The Lan part was the same character as his surname. Gusu, on the other hand… that was the historic name for the Suzhou province, where Cloud Recesses was located. But…

“Did you tell him where he is?” he asked Wen Yuan.

The teenager shook his head. “I thought about it, but… If he last remembers being all the way out in Yiling, wouldn’t it just confuse him? We’ll have to talk to him about all of that eventually, but… I suppose I thought it wasn’t important enough to get into that just yet.”

Reasonable. If frustrating; it was quickly becoming clear that the question of how Wei Wuxian had come to be here and now was neither easily addressed nor simple to avoid.

Wei Wuxian had watched their exchange intently, lips pursed as he considered their reaction. After a moment, his cheeks puffed out with a sigh – disappointment? Frustration? – and he reached for the pencil again, writing the character for family.

Ah. He was attempting to determine their clan affiliation – which, again, in the chaotic and constantly shifting political landscape of the world as he had known it, would be vital information, even a matter of life and death. In those days, kingdoms rose and fell in a matter of decades if not a few short years, only a few of them influential enough to leave names behind to history. Clans tended to be far more enduring.

Did that mean that Lan Wangji’s ancestors had once been an influential family in this area? He knew they had deep ties to Cloud Recesses, stretching back to the initial founding of the original monastery by Lan An. Lan An had supposedly been a monk who had broken off to form his own sect, but such an endeavor would require funds and other resources. Considered in that light, it made sense that he must have been a member of a wealthy family of some kind, even if Lan Wangji had never heard of such a clan in his research. The Lan name was not so common that he would have overlooked it had it come up, but so many records had been lost to the centuries…

Wei Wuxian tapped the “family” character again with a long finger, and Lan Wangji belatedly realized that it had been written, not to provide an explanation, but to ask a question.

He hesitated. How to answer that? The university’s name would probably be the most accurate in terms of scale, and universities were not that different from the old monasteries in terms of influence, but that didn’t answer the real question being asked. He just wasn’t certain that there was a way to answer without unintentional deception and confusion. “China” was not really an option; the term “Middle Kingdom” had a long and chequered history, associated with any number of kingdoms across the years. Adding “People’s Republic” would clarify nothing, not when the phrase involved terminology that didn’t even exist in Wei Wuxian’s time.

Really, to have this conversation what they needed was a map. Except that, not only had he neglected to bring a satellite map of the country with him this morning – doubtless there were political maps somewhere in Wen Yuan’s textbooks, but those were unlikely to be helpful – but pulling out a map would simply bring them back to the original problem. No matter how different the maps looked, eventually Wei Wuxian would realize what he was looking at, and that would raise massive questions that Lan Wangji wasn’t ready to answer, not when that would mean forcing Wei Wuxian to deal with the implications of those answers on his own.

Wei Wuxian waited for several long moments, watching Lan Wangji curiously. At length, however, he huffed, shook his head – and, to Lan Wangji’s surprise, picked up the pencil and crossed the “family” character out, firmly and decisively.

The message was obvious. It’s fine. You don’t have to answer.

Lan Wangji blinked, and winced internally. Obviously Wei Wuxian had noticed him hesitating. And come to his own conclusions.

I must bear in mind – to give no answer, or a slow one… is to answer anyway, in a different form.

Although he could not deny that it was a relief to have implicit permission to not give immediate answers. Allowing himself a sigh, Lan Wangji started to flip back to their vocabulary list—

“Wait!” Wen Yuan leaned in, catching and holding the page in place. Once Lan Wangji let go, the boy pointed at the crossed-out character and looked up at Wei Wuxian. “What about you?” he asked, speaking directly to the man and deliberately slowing his annunciation. Although Lan Wangji did not recall any of those words on the vocabulary list.

Wei Wuxian blinked, tilting his head and pointing to himself. Wen Yuan nodded eager encouragement, face brightening.

Strange. For a moment, Wei Wuxian seemed to hesitate, spinning the pencil between his fingers in a gesture that seemed half thoughtful and half stalling. Although his hesitation appeared to be partially surprise. Because they had not answered when he had asked? Surely it was rude to press a question without reciprocation…

But then he smiled brightly again, turning to write his response before passing the notebook back. “Yunmeng Jiang,” he said, tapping the three characters he’d written with the eraser end of the pencil.

Yunmeng. As in the old name for the area roughly approximate to Wuhan in modern Hubei? That made a certain amount of sense; Yiling was part of Hubei as well, if far east of Wuhan. Jiang was unexpected, though. Presumably, like Lan, it was the name of a prominent clan. But given the man’s name was Wei Wuxian… a subsidiary or affiliate family? The old noble families had been more than a single bloodline, after all; they’d been hubs of social, political, economic and military networks.

Except that, as with the Gusu Lan, Lan Wangji could not recall any references to a Yunmeng Jiang in the histories. Lan Wangji made a mental note to research both references later; if they were simply obscure, then it was likely they had been relatively short-lived as significant powers, which meant that they might help to narrow down Wei Wuxian’s original time frame.

In fact, he should probably start carrying a notebook of his own. His memory was good, but it would be best to keep a record of things that came up in these conversations – topics to research, communication methods. Important vocabulary, as well, since Wei Wuxian should keep the notebook they were currently using for reference purposes. Not to mention noting down any questions that might occur to him now but were better to save for when their ability to converse was less stilted.

Which… Turning the pages back to the vocabulary list, Lan Wangji picked up the pencil, intending to add the words what and about to the list, since Wen Yuan had used them.

And then hesitated. Had he not just told his uncle, only a few hours ago, that language was more than vocabulary and pronunciation? Words were important – but without grammar, they could never truly become speech.

If Wei Wuxian was going to learn to understand them, and respond in kind, then what they needed was not only words, but sentences. And given that Wen Yuan had already introduced the concept…

Well. They might as well start with the formulation of a question. He would likely be using that a great deal in the coming days, after all.

NOTES:

Gaokao (gāokǎo, 高考): China’s national undergraduate admission exam. Only about 40% of students pass on the first try.

Master Kong (Kǒng Fūzǐ, 孔夫子) - the original form of the name and title that missionaries latinized as “Confucius.”

I know it’s a popular characterization to say that a bored Wei Wuxian would of course gravitate straight towards all the dangerous things. But it’s not actually accurate to the character of Wei Wuxian in the novel; he takes risky chances when he has no other option, either to save himself or someone else. He does nothing with the suggestion he threw together in three seconds about resentful energy until he’s dropped into the Burial Mounds and it’s do or die. (Actually, I’d argue that his development of guidao has far more to do with his encounter with the old lotus farmer in the Lotus Pods extra than anything that happened in Cloud Recesses!) He throws himself between the brand and Mianmian only when he’s exhausted every other option – and he tries to keep it from hitting him. No explosive experiments in the cave. Wei Wuxian in the novel is pragmatic, and part of pragmatism is saving your recklessness for when it’s genuinely needed.

And since “Wei Wuxian has no manners” is another weirdly popular canon: Wei Wuxian actually has better manners than Lan Wangji in the novel, if you pay attention – in part because Lan Wangji’s status lets him get away with being incredibly rude, and otherwise he relies on stiff silent formality. When courtesy is appropriate, Wei Wuxian is courteous… but he also drops the courtesy if the situation doesn’t require it, to make a point, or to retaliate against someone who refuses to reciprocate his courtesy. He’s also, canonically, keenly aware of just what he can and can’t get away with – which is why he has so much fun playing Mo Xuanyu: he doesn’t have to worry about those calculations for once.

Part of mastering etiquette includes knowing how and when you can (or even should) break the rules.

And as a side note, let’s just note who calls Wei Wuxian “arrogant” in the novel, because Wei Wuxian gets accused of arrogance a lot… by blowhards like Sect Leader Yao, who complain about him standing his ground against people who shouldn’t have authority to give him commands in the first place. Seriously. The people who call Wei Wuxian arrogant are Jin Guangshan, Jin Guangyao, Jin Zixun, and sect leaders Yao and Ouyang. Usually in outright contradiction of what’s actually happening in front of them. Anyone notice a pattern here…?

And since I’m busy poking at popular fanons… canon, Wei Wuxian’s handwriting is described as “careless, yet poised” – not the “chicken-scratch” that seems to be popular in fandom! Given that he’s both an artist and accomplished in the six arts, including calligraphy, he has masterful control of a brush. So yes, he has good handwriting. So I tend to see him as writing in the more “cursive” style frequently seen on paintings. (And the bit about cursive script bedeviling modern scholars… if I had a dime for every time someone asked me to translate that sort of calligraphy? Okay, I’d probably still be less than a dollar the richer, but the point remains!)

Speaking of which… regarding Lan Wangji’s temperament: I read a meta once that pointed out that, in the Information Age, teen Lan Wangji would have turned out rather differently simply because ideas outside the hermetically sealed and homogeneous Gusu Lan ideology would have been the click of a mouse away. This is also a thirty-year-old Lan Wangji, much more in line with the Lan Wangji following Wei Wuxian’s resurrection (but not knowing him well enough to joke) than the fifteen-to-twenty-year-old caught in the horns of a moral dilemma between how he’s always been told is the way the world works and what he actually sees happening of the flashback era.

It’s never actually established if the Lan diet is vegetarian within the novel itself, we only know that if they eat meat, they don’t slaughter it inside the walls. I’ll grant that vegetarianism would be consistent with the ascetic themes and the way the Lan seem to be based on Buddhist enclaves. But there’s also indirect evidence against vegetarianism: we see Jingyi eating chicken with the other juniors at one point. Granted, that could be rule-breaking – they’re also drinking. But he makes no effort to hide the chicken… and physiologically? If you are strictly vegetarian for an extended time, your body stops producing the enzymes needed to digest meat. Meaning Jingyi should have been sick as a dog the next day, if he truly lived on an entirely vegetarian diet most of his life.

(To be fair: I have no idea if MXTX knew that little bit of biological trivia, so this could be a case of RL science imposing itself where it doesn’t belong. But it’s still an argument you can make!)

Wei Wuxian may or may not be good at math… but he’s skilled at talisman reading, meaning processing complex visual information and turning it into comprehension. And he had the benefit of watching Wen Yuan getting frustrated out of the corner of his eye! So he knew there was a mistake somewhere, he just needed to find it. (Also, fun fact: what we call “Arabic” numerals actually originated in India, were adopted by the Abbasid caliphate, and from there entered Europe.)

Wen Yuan and “because it’s cool”: just note that, in canon, Lan Sizhui is right in there with the rest of the juniors going “that’s awesome!” any time Wei Wuxian breaks out the guidao. And Wen Yuan’s worries about getting time conversions right is a shout out to all the writers and readers tackling the same problem in this fandom!

Given that I’m using the donghua as my main source of visuals? Yeah, women the world over would kill for hair like that.

Chapter Text

Dawn came early in the mountains, especially in the summer. When Lan Wangji woke, the sky was already pale as the first rays of the sun, itself still below the horizon, lit the upper atmosphere and set it glowing. Twittering outside his window announced that the morning birds were already awake and going about their business.

Getting up, he made his way to the bathroom, shaking his head slightly in a less than successful attempt to clear the lingering blurriness from his mind. He’d stayed up late the night before, writing up notes, researching, and attempting to corral his most important correspondence to a point where he could afford to ignore it for a few weeks. Luckily, he’d already made a start on the last, since he’d anticipated that the Yiling Laozu project would claim a fair amount of his time and attention.

Given recent developments, however, he had a feeling that his previous estimate of how much time and attention was woefully inadequate.

Luckily, his morning routine was straightforward and simple. Brushing his teeth, pulling his hair back in a strict bun before going out to the garden for a workout. Generally strength or endurance exercises, followed by Tai Chi; he’d found that the added challenge of moving through the stances when his muscles were already tired enhanced the meditative aspect, demanding he turn his entire focus on his body in the moment. Then a shower, followed by a quiet, simple breakfast taking in the way the world seemed to simply breathe, patient and unshaken, around his peaceful sanctuary.

Dishes cleaned and stowed, he paused in the doorway and looked at his living room, laid out in the traditional style to match the rest of his small home, and tried to imagine waking up somewhere completely different, where even the color of the light was alien to him, where he couldn’t communicate with anyone and people came and went with no explanation or warning – without even so much as a by-your-leave. Knowing that something had happened, something had changed, but having no idea what or how.

He could barely wrap his mind around even that, and it was only a fraction of the reality Wei Wuxian was living.

At least they’d made some progress on the language problem. He’d intended to go slowly, concerned about overwhelming Wei Wuxian when the man already had so much to deal with. Learning a language, especially as an adult, was difficult. No matter how intelligent the learner, mastering a language took time. Work. Memorization and repetition and accepting that all the study in the world would not protect one from making mistakes.

That last was the aspect Lan Wangji had always struggled with the most. He was well aware of his own perfectionist tendencies.

Wei Wuxian had seemed to enjoy the process, though, even laughing in what seemed like genuine amusement at the reactions his own mistakes had drawn. In fact, by the time they’d had to leave to ensure that Wen Yuan could make it to the bus running down the mountain to Caiyi, Lan Wangji had a suspicion that more than a few of those mistakes had been entirely deliberate on Wei Wuxian’s part. Given the limited vocabulary at his disposal, there were limits to how absurd a mistake could be if it were truly accidental.

Language learning was difficult and arduous and he’d approached it as a game.

Which, admittedly, was far from the worst way to do things. People could muster a focus and energy for play that would outstrip even the most dedicated study.

Shaking his head, Lan Wangji went to the guest room, checking that everything was in order. After some discussion, they’d decided that Wen Yuan would stay at the Jingshi for the length of his internship; Lan Wangji had hosted him on occasion in the past, when Wen Qing and Wen Ning had not been available. It would be far easier for Wen Yuan to maintain the required quarantine together with Lan Wangji than if the boy was trying to live out of a dorm room left unoccupied over the summer, and it would allow him to fulfill his role as Lan Wangji’s assistant by helping with note-taking and research at the end of each day.

They would have to make the dorm solution work on a temporary basis while Wen Yuan waited out the necessary two week isolation period to ensure that he hadn’t caught anything on his run back into town. There was no way he could stay in Lan Wangji’s home during that period without making a mockery of the whole effort, not when Lan Wangji would be working with Wei Wuxian on a daily basis. Luckily, Lan Xichen had assured them that he would secure one of the larger rooms with an attached kitchen, and Wen Yuan was quite self-sufficient – and reliable – for his age. He’d already assured Lan Wangji that he would be available for any research assignments or other long-distance support he might require, and that he intended to spend the rest of his time getting a head start on as much of his schoolwork as possible.

He had not mentioned phone calls and online games with his friends, but Lan Wangji knew that that was a given. As it should be.

Satisfied that the room was properly aired out and that the guest bed had been made up with fresh linens – which he’d done after Wen Yuan’s last visit, but there was no harm in verifying – Lan Wangji closed the door and prepared to leave.

He was just pulling his hair back to put it in the usual bun when he hesitated. Perhaps he should leave it down? It hadn’t occurred to him the day before, preoccupied as he’d been with more immediate issues, but…

His long hair had been one of his first acts of rebellion; he’d started growing it out as soon as he’d been free of the strict dress codes of mandatory schooling. He’d kept it shoulder-length ever since, assuaging concerns about dignity and propriety by keeping it neatly contained and his own stern reputation. But from Wei Wuxian’s perspective, the nearly universal short hairstyles worn by men had to seem strange; only convicted criminals and exiles would have had hair so short, but it would never have been so neatly trimmed in that case.

Lan Wangji considered the question, then mentally shrugged and finished the bun. He’d worn his hair that way the day before, after all, so whatever impression it might convey had already been made. And it was familiar and comfortable, and therefore would not distract him.

After that, he pulled a light jacket over his turtleneck – summer it might be, but mornings in the mountains were chilly and the air conditioning in the lab was aggressive. With luck, Wen Qing would have found better arrangements by now, but given the lack of messages to that effect, he suspected she’d been unsuccessful. The outfit might become uncomfortable if they moved to a different part of the building or if the afternoon turned warm, but he’d packed a lighter change of clothing in his bag along with a collection of reference books and writing materials for that exact reason.

Going to pick up the bag, however, he hesitated.

In truth, he had hesitated over those reference books… rather more than he normally did over decisions in general, and ridiculously so given that bringing them should have been simple common sense. As Wen Yuan had wisely decided regarding time measurement, the last thing that they wanted to do at this point was to make an easily prevented mistake in translation that would only introduce additional confusion in an already confusing situation.

And yet. A properly educated scholar should know many of those references by heart – a laborious and demanding memorization process, yes, but deeply important in an age where texts were heavy and precious, and knowledge of the classics an important shared philosophical base. Wouldn’t it only raise questions if Lan Wangji felt he needed references for something so basic…?

He huffed at himself and firmly picked the bag up, arranging the strap so that the weight would be evenly distributed. He was not going to let himself hide behind “it might confuse him” when he knew perfectly well that what was really at stake was his pride as a scholar: Wei Wuxian was clearly well educated and Lan Wangji’s ego did not want to be found wanting.

His ego did not belong in the decision-making process.

Besides. Given that he’d been unsuccessful as yet in locating any reference to a Gusu Lan or Yunmeng Jiang family, the collections of popular poetry from the period would do a great deal to narrow down the specific time period Wei Wuxian came from. Not all poets were famed in their own time, of course, but works like those of the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove had been well known. If Wei Wuxian recognized them, that would give them a reasonable terminus post quem for when he’d been lost to the ice.

And if not, then it was still good poetry in a witty style that he suspected Wei Wuxian would appreciate.

However, their main goal today was for Wen Qing to conduct a much more thorough medical exam to get a better sense of Wei Wuxian’s overall health, which meant that, at least for the morning, he needed to focus on explaining what she wanted – and possibly persuading, if Wei Wuxian was, understandably, hesitant about the process.

At least Wen Qing had already made clear that she had no intentions of subjecting the man to blood tests, X-rays, an MRI scan, or anything else that was invasive or required heavy equipment until they’d established enough of a base of language – and trust – for her to explain the purposes of those tests herself. Which was likely to become yet another source of conflict with the other project researchers.

He did not envy her in the slightest.

Closing the door behind him, Lan Wangji paused for a moment to draw in a slow, deep breath, letting the heavy quiet settle around him. His home was actually located deep in the oldest part of the Cloud Recesses complex, surrounded by pines and far away from the main area. According to the histories, it had been built as a refuge for monks who wanted to withdraw into secluded meditation – hence the name Jingshi – and had been part of Cloud Recesses for hundreds of years. Which was certainly consistent with the style, although Lan Wangji suspected that over the years, through fire and rot and the necessary upgrades to bring in modern necessities like plumbing and electricity… well, the building itself might be almost as old as Cloud Recesses, but each individual piece that comprised the structure was likely rather younger. He’d always found that rather poetic.

He passed by the footpath that eventually led to the natural cold springs with a bit of regret – he’d always found sitting by the springs an excellent space to think, when he had the time – and instead turned to the path leading out and into the main university complex.

Like the Jingshi, the heart of the university had maintained the layout and structures of the original Tang Dynasty monastery, although also like the Jingshi, many individual elements had been lost and replaced over the centuries. Some of them very recently indeed; the university had survived the purges of the Cultural Revolution largely by grace of being remote, a slow shift to secular status across the centuries, and a fortuitous reputation as a center of practical sciences at the time… but it had not survived unscathed, and a significant portion of the old complex still showed the slight color difference of new wood that had not quite weathered enough to match the other buildings yet.

Lan Qiren had seen some of the old buildings burn – something Lan Wangji tried to remind himself of when his uncle’s criticisms of his chosen field of study became particularly trying.

He wondered if Wei Wuxian would find any of the old complex familiar. The Cloud Recesses monastery was established during the early Tang, after Wei Wuxian’s time, but there may have been something smaller in the area originally. Granted, they were some distance from Hubei, and farther yet from Yiling. Travel would have been risky and dangerous at the time, usually a matter of necessity rather than choice – although not always, and Wei Wuxian was easily adventurous enough that Lan Wangji could picture him as a traveler.

But even if he had been to whatever place might have predated the Cloud Recesses monastery, it was unlikely that anything genuinely familiar remained after so much time. Especially once one moved out of the carefully preserved heart of the campus and into the area where the actual life of the university happened. The school had, after all, long outgrown its roots as an enclave of recluses distant from the taint of the ephemerality of daily life.

It wasn’t a jarring transition; even as the university had expanded, the developers had carefully stayed as close to the original aesthetic as possible. The interiors were state of the art, especially as one came to the area of the campus where the science and technology centers were housed, but the exteriors remained deeply traditional in design.

That didn’t change the fact that once one moved beyond the screen of trees marking the historic monastery from the rest of the campus, suddenly all the buildings were much bigger. Too big to be at all practical without internal climate control and advanced engineering and materials to support the weight of the structures.

Still. At least they were not the glass and concrete monstrosities Lan Wangji had encountered at other institutions over the years. Even the newest buildings, constructed in the past few years as the Yiling Laozu project drew new attention – and funding – to the university, maintained the signature look of Cloud Recesses. For all his disdain for anything that smacked of romanticism, Lan Qiren had strict standards regarding elegance and dignity.

Or at least the appearance thereof.

Lan Wangji used his ID card to enter the building, nodding briefly to the security guard at the door, and walked into the building and straight into an argument.

“Miss Wen, you are being completely unreasonable!”

Lan Wangji paused at the entrance to the conference room, taking in Wen Qing’s expression as she met Yao Yingjie’s blustering with a cool, level stare that rendered her physically diminutive stature in comparison to the older man utterly meaningless.

Not that the man himself seemed aware of just how deeply his foot was embedded in his mouth. “It is beyond ridiculous to require those of us who are focusing our research on the Yiling Laozu peripheral artifacts to maintain quarantine!”

Wen Qing flicked an eyebrow ever so slightly upward. “You mean to study Wei Wuxian’s belongings without even attempting to talk to the man himself, then?” she asked, a subtle sharpness in her tone.

The scholar had already waved a hand dismissively, the warning edge in Wen Qing’s tone clearly flying clean over his head. Unsurprising. Over the course of the many project planning meetings Lan Wangji had been required to attend, he had noted that while Professor Yao did have a gift for reading a room, he tended to apply it… selectively. “Oh, eventually, I’m sure,” he huffed impatiently, so quickly that Lan Wangji strongly suspected he hadn’t actually heard the question before the words were in his mouth. “But the sword – the robes – the flute! These are priceless artifacts! It is imperative that we get them cataloged and safely placed in appropriate storage to protect them!”

Lan Wangji stiffened. Because until the previous afternoon, no one had known that Wei Wuxian had a flute. So what was Professor Yao doing bringing it up now?

Granted, anyone who had gone into the hallway could have heard Wei Wuxian playing, and it was not difficult to extrapolate from that. And Yao Yingjie was exactly the sort to simply assume that a ban on entry could not possibly apply to him and attempt to walk into the lab.

Still.

From the way Wen Qing’s eyes narrowed, she didn’t like the implications either. But rather than address it, she simply said, “I would think Wei Wuxian is rather more priceless. And you want to simply swoop in and take his belongings without so much as a word?”

Yao Yingjie spluttered. “Well, it’s certainly preferable to him running about with them!”

Wen Qing’s lips thinned, her eyes hardening. “My decision stands,” she said flatly.

Yao Yingjie drew himself up to his full height – not that that was particularly impressive in the face of Wen Qing’s steely stare. “This is not your decision to make, Miss Wen! I have offered a perfectly reasonable compromise, you have no reason to be obstinate! I will be speaking to the project manager about this, I assure you!”

“Do that.” Wen Qing’s expression did not change at all.

That, apparently, was not exactly the reaction Yao Yingjie had expected. The man spluttered, “Well – I will, then!” and turned to storm away. Although his dramatic exit was hampered somewhat when he saw Lan Wangji standing in the doorway.

Technically, courtesy would dictate that, as the younger, Lan Wangji should yield the right-of-way and let the man pass. But he was feeling just irked enough by the man’s behavior to take a petty bit of pleasure in stepping forward instead, forcing Yao Yingjie to hastily back up until Lan Wangji had cleared the door and the man could leave.

Lan Wangji had never once claimed to not be petty.

Once Yao Yingjie was gone and the door was closed again, Wen Qing leaned forward and let her forehead rest on the table with a soft thump. “Rrrrrgh,” she stated eloquently.

Nie Mingjue snickered from where he was leaning against the wall, surprisingly unobtrusive for a tall and powerfully built man. “One thing I’ve learned here – academic blowhards are a breed of their own. Although you do realize he’s not completely off base?”

Wen Qing turned her head just enough to glower at him with one eye.

Nie Mingjue raised his hands. “Professor Yao’s got his priorities stuck in his research publications, sure. But Wei Wuxian’s going to want a change of clothes at some point. Not to mention a bath.”

And Yao Yingjie had not been completely wrong about the importance of preserving Wei Wuxian’s belongings, Lan Wangji had to grant. Because they were priceless and irreplaceable. Not just for science – although, again, the researcher wasn’t wrong about their value in that light – but for Wei Wuxian himself. The robes, his sword… those were all that was left of whatever he had left behind fifteen hundred years ago. He didn’t know that, not yet, but once he did… surely he’d want to keep them safe.

Wen Qing sighed. “And it might be better for Wei Wuxian if he’s… not quite so conspicuously out of his time,” she admitted grimly, straightening her posture again. “You heard Professor Yao. He’s still thinking of Wei Wuxian as a research specimen, in the back of his head. And believe me, that’s not the only conversation like that I’ve had in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe they’ll be better about remembering that the man is a living person and not a historic relic if he looks more like an ordinary person.”

“Pretty sure ordinary people don’t have hair like that,” Nie Mingjue said wryly, and raised his hands again at her glare. “I understand your point, Doctor. But even if he looks the part, it may not help until he has the language down. Doesn’t matter how many good reasons there are for it, doesn’t matter that he’s probably a bona fide genius – as long as he can’t talk to people, a lot of them are going to act like he’s an idiot who can’t think for himself.”

“I’ll take acting like he’s an idiot over acting like he’s an it,” Wen Qing said flatly. “I know the history of my field. Ugly things happen when a person becomes an it.”

Lan Wangji was a historian. He knew something about that, as well. “Do you truly think that is a danger here?” he asked, troubled.

Wen Qing was silent for a long minute before sighing. “I hope not,” she said carefully. “Your uncle runs a tight ship, and his ethics are as rigid as his worldviews.” She shook her head. “But… I do not like this situation. When all is said and done, a person’s ‘rights’ only exist insofar as other people are willing to defend them. And right now, the only people who know that Wei Wuxian exists at all, are a bunch of researchers who planned to build their careers and reputations on his dead body. I don’t think anyone would be deliberately malicious… but thoughtless denial can do just as much damage.”

Nie Mingjue rubbed his face, then huffed. “I hate it, but you have a point. I’ll make sure my people know to watch out. I need to talk to them anyway.” He grimaced. “And make sure they know they’ve got the authority to tell people to get lost. Zonghui doesn’t have a problem with it, but… I’m still trying to figure out who we can bring in on this. I need more people than just me, Meng Yao, and Zonghui. But half my people wouldn’t believe it was real if they saw it with their own eyes.”

That was reasonable, in truth. Lan Wangji had not considered it in such terms, but Nie Mingjue faced a unique challenge. Most of the researchers had been present in the observation room when Wei Wuxian awakened; they might not have accepted the implications, but they’d seen the fact of it with their own eyes. Most of the security force had not been present, but any who would be involved from this point on would need to be informed.

He wondered how many would persist in believing the whole thing an elaborate prank. Given some stories he’d heard about past pranks… probably more than a few.

No, he did not envy Wen Qing or Nie Mingjue. At least with Wei Wuxian, misunderstandings were the result of genuine confusion and the lack of a proper shared language, rather than a refusal to understand.

“What of last night?” he asked. “Was there any trouble?”

Nie Mingjue pursed his lips. “Not that Zonghui mentioned this morning, but I have a feeling that’s not going to last much longer, given the way half the project team tried to ambush Doctor Wen with arguments about how their research should be exempt from the quarantine rules.”

“Most of which boiled down to, I had plans, how dare you tell me that reality is making me change them!” Wen Qing said dryly. “Which is actually a good sign. If they’re arguing with me, then they don’t think going over my head to argue with Director Lan will work. Lan Qiren isn’t happy about this, but he is backing us.” Her lips quirked. “If only because he doesn’t like challenges to his decisions.”

He definitely did not. At least for once that was working in their favor. “And Wei Wuxian?”

Wen Qing sighed, shoulders dropping. “No one disturbed him… but I don’t think he actually slept at all.” She grimaced. “I can’t blame him. Everything else aside,” a sharp wave of her hand indicated the entirety of the whole situation and how very alien and unsettling it must be to the man, “I completely forgot just how much equipment is in that room. Even with the main lights turned off, I don’t think I’d be able to sleep with all the blinky lights in there.”

Lan Wangji winced internally. Yes, that would… not be helpful. “Can we turn them off?”

Wen Qing huffed. “You don’t want to hear what people said when they heard you’d showed him how to turn the room lights off in the first place. Apparently some of the project team think sleep is optional, and privacy? What privacy?” She pinched her nose, then shook her head. “To be fair, that one at least had the grace to be embarrassed when he heard himself. As for Wei Wuxian… when I checked on him this morning, he was meditating. He seemed all right, but…”

“Have you found an alternative space?” Lan Wangji asked.

Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue both grimaced. “I was hoping to get him into a medical observation room,” she said. “But we don’t have that kind of capacity here, and I don’t want to take him over to the research hospital. There’s too high a chance of exposure to something nasty.”

“Not to mention that the place is swarming with people,” Nie Mingjue said dryly. “Plenty of whom would absolutely notice if a bunch of people from the university’s internationally famous and controversial research project start showing up on their turf. You put him in there, it’ll be a matter of days at most before word gets out that reports of Yiling Laozu’s demise were greatly exaggerated.”

Which might not necessarily be a bad thing, considering Wen Qing’s worries.

Except… there was no way that Wei Wuxian’s remaining at Cloud Recesses would go uncontested. There would be a media circus, and posturing arguments over custody, and Wei Wuxian deserved to at least have the option of speaking with his own voice when nations started bickering over him.

“So we’re left making do here.” Wen Qing looked at Lan Wangji. “You got my email?”

He nodded. “I do not know how much help I will be,” he warned her. He’d done his best to brainstorm ways to approach the topic, but there were limits. One could not exactly chain together the words for “blood” and “pressure” and expect to communicate any kind of meaningful information.

She nodded, unsurprised, as she stood up. “Hopefully we won’t need too much,” she said. “I don’t want to do anything fancy, but I do need to get a baseline on his overall health, so we have something to go on to check if anything is wrong. And that’s going to require using some actual equipment.” She smiled wryly. “Honestly, you’d probably be just as useful as a demonstration guinea pig.”

Lan Wangji considered that. And considered the concerns she’d expressed, and the overall situation. “That seems a wise approach,” he said, as Nie Mingjue grabbed the large cart in the back of the room that was carrying the equipment in question.

Holding the door open for the cart, Wen Qing blinked, apparently not having expected him to take her comment seriously. Then she looked thoughtful. “Good point. We want to establish at the start that no one should be asking him to put up with anything we wouldn’t.”

Lan Wangji nodded. The point might simply fly past the other researchers, who were accustomed to authority, but if Wei Wuxian understood that overbearing behavior was not acceptable, the man would hopefully be willing to draw his own lines despite the uncertain situation he’d found himself in.

Wen Qing closed the door behind them, flipping the flag to indicate that the conference room was now unoccupied and available for use. “We also need to figure out if I can act as his primary physician, or if we need to bring in a male doctor. The last thing we need is a sense of propriety interfering with treatment if he needs it.”

Nie Mingjue hummed as he pushed the cart into the elevator. “Oddly, Doctor? I don’t think that’ll be a problem. I’m pretty sure that of everyone he’s met so far, he respects you the most.”

Lan Wangji nodded. Wei Wuxian was playful, but there was no mistaking that he had immediately recognized Wen Qing as a figure with authority to be reckoned with.

Wen Qing smiled wryly as they entered the elevator and the doors closed behind them. “Isn’t that a kick. The man from the sixth century has more respect for me than twenty-first century professionals.”

Ironic indeed, Lan Wangji had to grant. Although also intriguing. Granted, Wei Wuxian came from a world before the stricter codes of the School of Principle had even been codified, let alone become the standard. And times of chaos were usually harshest on women, but simultaneously could offer unique opportunities.

“Is he from the sixth century?” Nie Mingjue asked curiously. “I was under the impression that we weren’t actually sure.”

“The evidence is unclear,” Lan Wangji agreed.

Wen Qing smiled wryly. “But going by the ice cores they took from the glacier, he’s definitely from before all the canal-building and deforestation that happened with the Sui dynasty. So if he’s not from the sixth century, then he’s from some point even earlier, which does not exactly reduce the irony…”

The elevator doors slid open, and Wen Qing’s words were abruptly interrupted.

“…do you think you are, telling me what to do? Do you know who my uncle is?!”

“Oh, hells,” Nie Mingjue muttered, abandoning the cart to step past them and into the hallway. Lan Wangji quickly grabbed the handles and followed, although the doors almost closed on the cart before Wen Qing quickly hit the Hold button.

Standing in front of the door to the lab, Meng Yao smiled pleasantly at the fuming young man in front of him. “Oh, I’m well aware,” he said.

The young man puffed his chest and tried to stride forward, only to come up short when Meng Yao didn’t so much as twitch as his space was invaded, just continued smiling without giving an inch.

The young man’s face was livid. “Well, if you know, then you should know better than to get in my way!” he fumed.

“Your uncle isn’t part of this project, kid.” Nie Mingjue stalked forward, his smile full of teeth. “And unless his name is Lan Qiren, he’s got no say in anything here.”

“And I’ve already spoken to your advisor, Jin Zixun,” Wen Qing said icily. “He did not send you, and would not have the authority to do so if he had tried. You are not authorized to enter the lab.”

Jin Zixun attempted to look down his nose at her. “You are attempting to cut everyone else out of the Yiling Laozu project by monopolizing access and I will not stand for it! I demand you open that door immediately!”

“Demand all you like. The answer remains no until you have followed all required procedures as laid out by Director Lan in yesterday’s announcement.”

Jin Zixun’s face was rapidly darkening to near purple. “When my uncle hears of this…!”

“You have signed a nondisclosure agreement,” Lan Wangji said. “Failure to honor the agreement will mean immediate removal from the project.”

That, at least, seemed to sink in. Jin Zixun attempted to splutter and puff another threat, but faced with a united front, finally turned on his heel and stormed away.

The effect was somewhat spoiled when his angry jab at the elevator button failed to immediately open the doors; apparently someone else was using it, forcing Jin Zixun to wait, seething awkwardly in the hallway, until finally the elevator arrived and he could storm in… and then wait awkwardly again for the doors to close.

Another reason Lan Wangji preferred the stairs. The heavy fire doors were too hefty to slam, but at least they had enough visceral weight to them to allow a bit of satisfaction. And no waiting.

Nie Mingjue waited until the numbers on the elevator started counting down before glancing at Lan Wangji and Wen Qing. “Okay, I have to ask. How did that guy make the cut onto the team? Director Lan has his faults, but pandering to the I’ll tell my rich and powerful relatives on you and you’ll be sorry! type typically isn’t one of them.”

Wen Qing sighed heavily. But to Lan Wangji’s surprise, it was Meng Yao who answered. “He’s Professor Yao’s graduate assistant. Professor Yao is one of the top scholars on ancient trade networks, but a lot of his research also informs the tourist industry. Which means a lot of his funding…”

“Comes through the Bureau of Tourism. Which means Jin Guangshan.” Wen Qing grimaced.

Meng Yao hesitated for a moment. “I think… we should consider his threat of contacting his uncle seriously,” he said delicately. “Jin Zixun has a history of… being rash.”

“You mean assuming his social connections will get him out of any consequences.” Nie Mingjue’s grimace was a match for Wen Qing’s. “Good point. And there’s nothing like being told no that inspires a grudge in the ones who think they have a right to anything they want. He’d absolutely go whining to his uncle. NDA? What NDA?”

“And Jin Guangshan would be all over it,” Wen Qing shook her head. “I can’t guess what tack he’d take, but he’d absolutely try to leverage this for political influence – and that means riling people up.”

What political influence could he possibly expect to gain, Lan Wangji wanted to ask… but hadn’t he just been thinking about the media circus that would erupt when word got out that the man in the ice who had captured so many imaginations was alive?

Media meant cameras. Public opinion. Visibility. The stuff of political power.

“What can be done?” he asked bluntly.

Because Nie Mingjue was right that word would get out eventually. It should get out, if only so Wei Wuxian would not have to live the rest of his life a secret. But the last thing they needed was Jin Guangshan wielding that information as a weapon in his quest for ever more influence.

And Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao were correct that no mere NDA would be enough to control Jin Zixun’s outraged sense of entitlement.

Meng Yao tilted his head with a wry smile, glancing at Nie Mingjue. “Well, in the short term, I think you made a good move in reminding him that running his mouth off has more than just legal consequences. He’s used to money and power keeping him out of trouble with the law, but trouble with Lan Qiren is another matter entirely.” He pursed his lips. “In the long term…”

“I’ll speak with Director Lan,” Nie Mingjue said. “We’ve been lucky this far. It helps that he selected for a type putting the team together; I’m not sure how many of them even have social media accounts that they actually use. Doesn’t hurt that it still benefits them to keep quiet.”

Lan Wangji found he did not like the idea of resisting speaking to the media out of personal benefit, although he did recognize the pragmatism of it. He liked even less the thought that they were lucky word had yet to get out, when Wei Wuxian had been free of the ice for less than a day.

Learning a language took time. It had not occurred to him to wonder how much time they could realistically hope for.

Wen Qing huffed. “Well. None of this is going to be solved with us standing here,” she said briskly. “If I may?”

Meng Yao stepped gracefully aside from where he’d been blocking the door. “Of course, Doctor,” he said with a smile.

Lan Wangji glanced at Nie Mingjue. “You will be joining us?” he asked.

“Just this morning.” Nie Mingjue made a face. “I have a job to do, and I can’t do it in quarantine. But…”

“But we want to make sure Wei Wuxian knows who we trust,” Wen Qing said bluntly. “Nie Mingjue was in there yesterday, and he hasn’t had much additional exposure since. It’s a risk I think we have to take.” Stepping forward, she knocked briskly.

A moment’s pause. “Who is it?”

It was interesting, Lan Wangji noted. When Wei Wuxian had been speaking his own language, or practicing during the lesson the previous afternoon… perhaps due to the myriad of things that Lan Wangji had been concentrating on, he’d never really registered the simple sound of the man’s voice: light and pleasant, midrange in comparison to Lan Wangji’s own baritone. And while he did have an accent – hardly surprising – it wasn’t an unpleasant one.

He was also relieved that Wei Wuxian apparently recalled the warning Lan Wangji had attempted to impart the previous evening about verifying the identity of a visitor before allowing anyone in. Hopefully it would not be needed, but better to have the understanding established.

“Lan Wangji, Wen Qing, and Nie Mingjue,” he answered.

“Ah!” A few moments later, the door opened and Wei Wuxian grinned at them. “Good morning!” he said brightly, before standing aside to wave them in.

Nie Mingjue chuckled as he reclaimed the cart and pushed it through the door. “Sounds like you’ve made good progress already,” he commented.

Lan Wangji gave him a flat look as he followed the man into the lab. Because yes, they had tried to cover certain basic set phrases like greetings. But those were the most basic parts of language, things that were mostly a matter of rote memorization. They didn’t even begin to get into the depths of what was needed to communicate.

If Wei Wuxian truly hadn’t slept the night before, he gave no sign of it in his demeanor. Glancing curiously at the cart and its array of medical equipment, he tilted his head, then moved over to the thawing bed turned table and began clearing away…

Suddenly intrigued, Lan Wangji stepped forward to look more closely at the papers scattered across the table. When Wen Yuan had left to catch the bus the previous day, he’d insisted on leaving all of his writing tools and blank papers with Wei Wuxian. “It’s not like it’ll be hard to get more,” he’d explained, “and this way at least he’ll have something to do.”

At the time, Lan Wangji had assumed Wei Wuxian would use the paper for sketching, given that he seemed to be something of an artist. Or possibly coming up with lists of additional words to learn, given that he hadn’t been at all shy about making suggestions. And there were indeed some drawings and what seemed to perhaps be scribbled notes here and there. But for the most part…

Lan Wangji almost reached out to pick one of the slips of paper up before remembering himself and looking at Wei Wuxian. “May I?” he asked.

Stacking a set of the strange drawings to put aside, Wei Wuxian smiled and nodded, waving a hand idly.

An impatient part of Lan Wangji itching for a closer look almost made him take that as good enough. He forced himself to wait.

Wei Wuxian blinked, then smiled sheepishly. “Go ahead,” he said.

Satisfied, Lan Wangji picked up the sheet of paper his hand had been hovering over. It might seem pedantic, but he wanted to thoroughly establish an expectation that Wei Wuxian should give verbal permission if he was genuinely okay with a request. Before he started getting less polite requests.

Wen Qing was perhaps not the only one uncomfortable with the inherent power imbalance of this situation.

But for the moment… carefully, Lan Wangji studied the slip of paper, tracing the complex pattern of characters and swirling lines with his eyes in astounded fascination.

“Huh. Is that a lingfu?” Nie Mingjue asked, looking over his shoulder.

“So it seems,” Lan Wangji agreed.

It had been after an argument with his uncle – if you could call it an argument, when Lan Qiren had flatly stated the course of study that Lan Wangji would follow as if alternative options did not even exist. He’d returned to his classes and, in a fit of pique, for his very next paper in his (“acceptable, if pointless”) class on the classical philosophies, he’d opted to research how the philosophical teachings of Laozi had transformed from a school of philosophy to a religion.

And had promptly been entranced.

Not so much by the religion itself, but by the way ancient people had made sense of and tried to create stability within the chaotic and dangerous centuries after the fall of the Han, as warlords and nobles battled for supremacy and everyone else simply fought to survive.

Only the acute awareness that the others were watching him – including Wei Wuxian, who had made it, likely for a reason – kept him from actually following the fluid lines with a finger. He’d written more than a few papers on the religio-magical practice of fulu and the development of lingfu, intrigued by the intersection of folk magic, the decidedly elite art of writing, and the esotericism of the various schools and sects with their individual and secretive styles.

He didn’t recognize the style of this one, and he desperately wanted to know more about it. There was a clean, efficient elegance to it, despite the fact that it had been drawn with a cheap ballpoint pen on gridded essay paper.

In fact… from the look of the other papers Wei Wuxian had gathered up, he’d been experimenting with different combinations of writing implements and paper types. Which… well. Given the strange circumstances the man had found himself in, it made sense that he would want the reassurance of something to ward away danger. But the apparently systematic experimentation made Lan Wangji desperately wish they could talk, because clearly Wei Wuxian had some sort of criteria he was testing for.

…not that he would necessarily get an answer even if they didn’t have the language barrier. The making of lingfu was, after all, an esoteric secret.

Secret enough that the earliest attestation of lingfu wasn’t until the eighth century, even though fulu itself dated to the fourth. He was holding in his hand proof that lingfu had been a complex and codified system long before they entered the historic records.

“So now we have magic talismans on top of the whole froze-to-death-without-dying thing?” Nie Mingjue chuckled. “Maybe he’s one of those immortal cultivators after all. Wouldn’t that be a kick for the historians?”

Wen Qing smacked his shoulder, hard enough that the big man actually winced. “Do not say that where Lan Qiren can hear you,” she said, tone hard enough to send ice down Lan Wangji’s spine. “It’s hard enough to get him to acknowledge that this is a real and serious situation we’re dealing with. The minute the xianxia jokes start going around, he will go into complete denial out of sheer spite, and that is not something we can afford right now!”

Oddly, Nie Mingjue raised his eyebrow slightly at that, an amused look flickering across his face at Wen Qing’s quelling tone. Then he shrugged nonchalantly.

Suddenly realizing that he’d been standing there holding the lingfu the whole time, Lan Wangji made himself hand it back to Wei Wuxian. “Thank you.”

Wei Wuxian accepted the lingfu back with a smile and a tilt of his head that seemed oddly… thoughtful, and Lan Wangji abruptly realized that giving it to him must have been a test of some kind.

But a test of what, he couldn’t tell. And after a moment, Wei Wuxian shrugged and tossed the paper onto the stack he’d made of the others. Then he looked at Lan Wangji again. “Wen Yuan is where?” he asked.

Slightly awkward phrasing, but the curiosity was clear – and expected. “He traveled home,” Lan Wangji said. “He will return in a few days.”

He reached for the notebook that Wei Wuxian had left on the table – obviously having anticipated that it would be needed – but to his surprise, Wei Wuxian stopped him with a raised hand, frowning in concentration as he spun a pencil in his other hand, which Lan Wangji knew now was something of a habit when the man was thinking.

Then, to Lan Wangji’s surprise again, Wei Wuxian picked up the notebook himself and flipped to the back pages that they had been using as workspace before adding things to the lists in the front, jotting down several characters before passing the notebook to Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji blinked. Days and home made sense; they’d covered those the previous evening. But journey…?

Had he guessed that from context? Wen Yuan’s absence combined with the term home would be enough to extrapolate travel of some kind, particularly with the added element of time implied by days. But to have picked that out from a series of unfamiliar words, however careful Lan Wangji had been to keep his phrasing simple…

Well. It was not as if he weren’t aware that the man was both observant and intelligent. Dryly amused by his own surprise, Lan Wangji nodded agreement at Wei Wuxian’s limited interpretation, and then began breaking down what he had actually said.

Wei Wuxian’s face fell slightly at the confirmation that Wen Yuan would not return for some time – unsurprising, given how the two had apparently bonded, and Lan Wangji could not help feeling at least a little pride that the teenager had made such a good impression that the time-lost man clearly thought well of him. But Wei Wuxian nodded his understanding, and then cast an openly curious look in the direction of the cart with its medical equipment that Wen Qing was setting up. Then he turned those bright, expectant eyes to Lan Wangji again.

Lan Wangji drew in a deep breath, and began his explanation.

These are very odd people!

Propping his elbows on the peculiar not-table, Wei Wuxian watched attentively as Lan Wangji started writing again, while also following Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue’s bustling about with those strange devices out of the corner of his eye.

Seriously. What was with these people and little blinking lights, anyway?

If not for that, he might have thought… well, more accurately, back when he’d first woken up he had thought for a few confused moments that he’d somehow ended up in the midst of a group of very lost Lans, what with the snow-white robes and Lan Wangji. It wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility, after all; after Cloud Recesses burned, many of Lan Yi’s people had scattered, afraid that Wen Xu wouldn’t be content with merely destroying their home. She’d done her best to rally them back together, but it wasn’t hard to imagine that some had run so far and so fast, or gone so deeply to ground, that they still had no idea that the war was over.

But beyond the fact that nary a forehead ribbon was in sight, there wasn’t a Lan born who would wear such undignified short robes over nothing but underclothes, no matter how fine the material seemed to be!

Which wasn’t the only oddity. Take the paper they’d so casually left for him! It was of excellent quality, smooth and even, without the least hint of feathering (once he’d managed to actually find a proper brush and ink, rather than the fascinating metal-tipped “brushes” that seemed to draw their ink from a well contained inside the handle, which was a brilliant idea even though the ink itself was of distinctly poor quality in most cases – to say nothing of the odd, slender sticks of something like charcoal that could simply be rubbed away when necessary, very handy!). It was also rather flimsy – excellent for showcasing the fineness of the paper, terrible for practical use!

And, notably, not a single sheet of mulberry paper or stick of cinnabar in sight.

Not that that would necessarily slow him down. After that first stint in the Burial Mounds and then dealing with Wen Chao with no weapons to hand outside of what he could find or whistle up… well. He’d been rather motivated in finding ways to use nonstandard materials.

But after seeing the way Lan Wangji had reacted to the experimental talisman – it wasn’t even a functional design, because he was not stupid enough to make an active talisman using materials with unknown properties, especially when he was using a writing implement that unpredictably spat out a sticky tacky gooey blob of is-that-ink!… Well. The man seemed familiar with the idea of talismans, but he acted like he’d never actually seen one.

So. Probably not a cultivation sect at all. Which was a relief, in a way, because if the bizarre flickering, buzzing bars of light embedded in the ceiling overhead were the result of a talisman, then as a talisman master Wei Wuxian would have been professionally obligated to be ashamed on the art’s behalf. And he did not do shame, thank you.

Still. Lan Wangji, Wen Yuan, Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue had been quite hospitable, especially given that they had apparently been as surprised by his abrupt awakening as he had. He was perfectly happy to return their courtesy as much as possible. At least until he had a better idea of where he was!

Nowhere he’d heard of, which meant he was very far away, indeed, given that Yunmeng tended to hear a lot simply by virtue of the docks bringing in the river trade. He’d have at least encountered rumors of these people, if they were anywhere near the sect lands.

Not to mention that none of them had reacted to his name – which suggested that not only did they not know the war was over, they may not have known much about it in the first place. He had acquired something of a reputation.

And yet, the way they wrote, as if someone had simply decided to abbreviate the strokes in a way that felt systematic, even if he hadn’t seen enough yet to figure out how, especially when sometimes the meaning of a particular character seemed to have pivoted somehow into a different word that was close but not the same. The strange ghosting sense of familiarity dancing around the edges of their words, as if he should understand what they were saying if he just listened hard enough… It was almost as if they had origins in the central lands, but were not of them.

Honestly, it brought to mind folktales about hidden enclaves of immortals tucked away in eternal groves. Except, again: no talismans. And annoying blinky lights. Not to mention the very rude guards attacking a junior for mouthing off to them!

Granted, immortals were not known for being nice or kind. Still. It didn’t fit.

Of course, it didn’t help that he had no memory of what had happened to get him here. When he tried to think back on what he remembered before waking up half-locked in ice, seriously, how?!…

He remembered the Burial Mounds. Weeks and months and years of effort, the slow gradual thinning of the tainted energy. He remembered deciding it was time to leave seclusion and rejoin cultivation society. But when he got to the part about actually setting off down the mountain…

His memory got fuzzy at that point, in a way he did not like in the least.

But! That was something to worry about later. For now…

He turned his head to study the characters as Lan Wangji was writing. Wen Qing’s name, and physician – hm. Interesting that he’d chosen the term for an herb-and-knife medic, rather than a healer. But perhaps that explained why she hadn’t checked his qi yesterday.

First a Lan, now a Wen, and neither of them cultivators. He did not know what to make of that.

Still. Cultivator or not, Wen Qing did have the calm, clear confidence of a woman who knew what she was capable of, and while he’d never heard of someone using such strange devices to take the three pulses… Well, he’d never seen quite a few of the things that this odd bunch took for granted. And he did appreciate the fact that she wanted to get a sense of his health before anything unfortunate happened.

Although he couldn’t deny that the precaution sent a cold breath of unease across the back of his neck. Because it suggested that they expected him to be here long enough that something unfortunate might happen.

Granted, someone had tried to kill him already, so maybe they had a point in being cautious. Maybe.

He still felt like he should be at least a little offended! He didn’t usually have people trying to kill him on their very first meeting! He hadn’t even been trying to aggravate that guard yesterday, he could not be held responsible for sensibilities that were that easily offended, really.

Huffing, he nodded his understanding. And then looked pointedly at the strange devices and raised his eyebrows.

Watch, was Lan Wangji’s response, and at that point the man had well and truly earned the eyeroll Wei Wuxian responded with, because really. What else was he supposed to do?

Granted, the suggestion made a bit more sense when Wen Qing crooked a finger, whatever odd setup she’d been doing apparently complete, and Lan Wangji got up to walk over to her. Explaining by example, not by words. Which made sense, given the circumstances. If they tried to work every step out with their current awkward system, it would take forever. Mentally shrugging, Wei Wuxian slid off the seat he’d been perched on and moved over to watch over Wen Qing‘s shoulder—

And then did a double take, and he would cheerfully own that, because rather than bamboo slips or one of those handy paper bundles, Wen Qing was holding a glowing tablet of some kind.

Wen Qing didn’t seem at all surprised by his reaction. In fact, going by the amused huff and the way she tilted it so that he could see better, she’d probably anticipated something of the sort.

Which, glowing tablet and no formation or wards to be seen. That deserved showing off.

So when she offered it for him to handle, he happily accepted, because as mentioned earlier: Shame? What was that?

Carefully, however, because there was pointless reticence for the sake of face and then there was being foolish. If it glowed, then some source of power was involved. And while he doubted that any physician would casually hand over something with the power to carelessly harm, you didn’t devote power to something that wasn’t meant to be used. He had no intention of triggering anything.

He’d trained more than enough young disciples to know that “oops” was probably the most dangerous word in the world.

It was surprisingly heavy in his hands; metal, rather than paper or bamboo, although not heavy enough to be steel. And there was qi embedded in the device, a central source sending spiderwebs of power throughout the device, and especially to the smooth, flawless sheet of glass emitting that pale glow. Not human qi, either, for all that it bore a resemblance to the way a cultivator might charge a ward or talisman with power so that it would remain active without ongoing effort. The energy reminded him more of the bifurcated power that lingered when silk brushed amber, similar to the energies of a compass. He’d certainly poked at enough of those to know the flavor of it!

The back side of the device was smooth metal – likely meant more to serve as a grip and protect the holder from the snapping energy within than a functional surface. The glowing face…

He studied the blue field with its neatly arranged series of sigils filling the surface in a grid-like pattern. Each one was marked by more of the odd abbreviated characters; he recognized a few here and there, and others he thought he could guess, based on the pattern of the way the characters had changed that he’d seen so far. But not enough to be confident he could puzzle out a meaning, at least not without sitting down and working at it.

Pursing his lips, he handed the tablet back to Wen Qing, who immediately tapped one of the sigils. The glowing surface shifted, suddenly stark white with the sigil she’d touched filling the surface with black lines. Then it shifted again – more white, and still the sigil, but smaller now and at the upper part of the surface, the greater part filled with grey rectangles labeled with text. Wen Qing tapped one, and the image shifted again. Another tap, and now the surface showed the same mixture of lines and text he had seen on the paper Lan Wangji had repurposed to communicate right after Wei Wuxian had first awakened. And for that matter, all the characters on the tablet had the same oddly impersonal uniformity of stroke and width he’d noticed in those lines of not-ink.

Was that what this was – some way of writing without resorting to brush and ink? It seemed a great deal of effort and energy to put into such a simple task, though, especially when they’d already solved the problems of carrying ink around with those metal-tipped brushes.

He had so many questions and couldn’t ask any of them. This was almost worse than the Lans’ stupid silencing spell!

At least the purpose of the device in this context was clear enough. Wen Qing had Lan Wangji slide a tube of fabric up to encircle his upper arm, then used some kind of hand pump to force not water but air into it, going by the sound, until the entire thing had tightened to the point that it had to be cutting off blood flow like a tourniquet, even if Lan Wangji’s face showed no reaction. Then she let go of the pump, and the air began escaping with a slow hiss. Then, suddenly, the stand that cuff and pump were attached to began beeping, as a display of – of course – glowing numbers lit up.

Really, these people were far too fond of blinking glowing things. And beeping.

After a moment, however, the beeping stopped, and the cuff released the remaining air all at once. Wen Qing nodded, tapped her glowing panel, and a grid of numbers and those strange symbols that seemed to represent sounds similar to the sacred temple scripts appeared. She tapped the same numbers as the ones on the stand, and they appeared on a line next to characters indicating… something to do with blood, and another with the heart?

That made sense; Lan Wangji had indicated that this was something like taking the three pulses, after all. He did wonder about the purpose of using the glowing device, though. Was it simply a convenient record-taking system, or could it be used in specific ways, analogous to how wards and talismans could be fine-tuned to specific circumstances or individuals?

Seriously. So. Many. Questions! He was going to explode from sheer frustrated curiosity at this rate!

And that would be rude. Clearly, it was simply a matter of common decency to ask all the questions as soon as he feasibly could.

…Which probably wouldn’t be for some time. Argh. What had he done in a past life to warrant such cruel and unusual punishment?

Well, since asking questions was not an option at the moment, all he could do was observe. Most of the tests made sense, even if he had to puzzle over a few to figure out what sense they were supposed to be making. For one thing, these people clearly liked to turn things into numbers, although he wasn’t clear if high or low numbers were considered good. Going by when and how Nie Mingjue would smirk and tease the unflappably stone-faced Lan Wangji, he suspected the answer was “it depends on the number.”

But as he’d observed earlier, the tests seemed to be almost entirely physical in nature. Certainly nothing qi-based, and even when he couldn’t puzzle out a sense of what was being measured – really, why had she stuck that thing under his tongue? Oh, and of course it beeped, it was getting to the point where he’d be more surprised if it didn’t beep or flash or glow – it was clear that they relied on tools and devices where a cultivator would rely on qi.

Then Lan Wangji took his shirt off, and alright, that warranted some raised eyebrows. Because, yes, healers and physicians did generally need a few less layers in the way if they were going to do their job properly. Although he had to admit that he was surprised that someone who seemed so very Lan would do so in mixed company, scandalous lack of overall layers or no.

He was even more surprised that the man would do so when he had to know that they were being watched.

How, Wei Wuxian hadn’t yet managed to figure out. Although he presumed it had something to do with the flow of patterned qi that pulsed through the walls and floors and ceiling and more than a few of the odd devices in this room. None of them were any sort of ward or spell that he could recognize, but you didn’t gather and shape qi without intending to do something with it. And he wasn’t going to touch any of it, since it was very obviously activated. Good way to get into the kind of trouble you might not get out of.

But after the war… well, he’d made a point of including an active spy-ward in the assortment of test-talismans he’d been making, using his own paper he’d slipped out of his sleeve. Which was potentially risky, given that he didn’t have much left to begin with, but after everything, he’d learned to take precautions. There were too many prying power-mongers eager to get their hands on secrets that they had no business messing with.

Of course, he did have another reason for the raised eyebrows. Someone had clearly not been neglecting his training!

Although…

Reaching over, he poked the muscles of Lan Wangji’s shoulders thoughtfully. Because what with one thing and another, he’d dealt with more than enough bodies to identify a sword style based on musculature alone. And while Lan Wangji was quite impressively fit, it looked like he’d never trained with a sword at all. Not just the way he moved and the lack of calluses. He simply didn’t have the shoulder mass of someone who was accustomed to swinging around what was, after all, a fairly heavy piece of sharp steel, no matter how spiritually charged.

Although the lack of calluses was odd for other reasons. Lan Wangji was a scholar, and carried himself as a man of refinement – surely he’d had at least basic training in the bow and the horse?

Then again, it was clear that the man had led a very sheltered life, given that not a single scar dared to mar that porcelain skin. Even with a fully developed and quite powerful core, Wei Wuxian had collected his share of marks.

Although ever since he’d awakened in this strange place, his core had felt… off. Not drained, exactly, but almost… bruised? Or maybe strained was a better term for it; almost like the muscle aches that came after a battle had lasted so long that you’d overrun what your body could endure and then kept going because the only alternative was death. As if he’d been constantly pushing the very edge of draining himself, for a long time.

Which didn’t make sense. He’d run the edge of core depletion during the war, of course – everyone had, at least a few times, even non-combatant cultivators like Jiang Yanli, and he’d been in the thick of things more than most. But he’d been careful to pace himself in the Burial Mounds, resting and restoring his reserves completely before starting a new phase. He was fairly certain that he’d been the strongest he’d ever been when he prepared to leave.

And now here he was, waking out of ice, in a place like nothing he’d ever heard of, with a sore core. He hadn’t even known that was a thing!

At least he hadn’t seen any more of the strange projectile weapons from that first day. He’d managed to catch that one purely because he’d seen the attack coming, even if he hadn’t guessed its precise nature. But if he didn’t see one… Well. Even a powerful cultivator could be killed by an arrow they didn’t see coming. And that thing had the potential to do far more damage than an arrow. Silk wouldn’t catch that.

Although properly warded silk might? Something to explore, at least. He did not want to have to go back to the hypervigilance of the war years.

Still, it was hard to square a weapon like that against Lan Wangji’s nice, smooth, flawless skin. Granted, protected noble heirs safely sheltered behind trained guards were nothing new… but that didn’t fit with one of said guards turning a weapon on said noble heir’s student.

Then again. Guards who believed carrying weapons gave them the authority to use said weapons as they pleased? Also not new. Likewise factional struggles for power within a sect or clan… and while he might not understand the words, the tone of the arguments he’d heard through the door of this odd cell were enough to tell him that one was brewing out there. And it had something to do with him.

Hopefully not the way certain other arguments had. He’d hate to unleash angry ghosts on these people, but if he had to fight his way out, he wasn’t going to hold back, either.

If he had to, of course. It hadn’t slipped his notice that the door didn’t appear to lock against anyone inside the room. And thus far, everyone he’d actually met except for the rude guard had treated him with a kind of artless courtesy. He had nothing against being polite in return!

Speaking of, Nie Mingjue was going to crack a rib trying to suppress his laughter like that, and even stern Wen Qing’s eyes were dancing over the recording tablet she’d raised like a fan to hide her lips, so he’d probably delayed them with shamelessness enough for one sitting! Grinning, he patted Lan Wangji’s bared shoulder one last time as thanks and apology for the man’s forbearance, then retreated back to watching over Wen Qing’s shoulder.

Hm. Those were painfully red ears, for all that the man’s face never so much as twitched. He’d have to come up with a proper apology gift.

And now he had a better sense of what these people did and didn’t consider acceptable. Remarkably relaxed about clothing, but touching was considered bold – although, given the lack of shock in the suppressed laughter, not scandalously so. Good to know.

Shaking her head, Wen Qing picked up yet another odd device – some sort of flexible cord with a metal disc at one end and attached to a rod of metal that separated into two equal branches that curved inwards at the end, the tips covered with some kind of dull black material. Which must have been cushioning of some kind, because she settled those curved ends in her own ears, and then placed the metal disc against Lan Wangji’s chest, frowning as she appeared to listen for a few moments, moved the disc, and listened again, periodically giving Lan Wangji instructions that seemed to do with changing the pattern of his breathing. After repeating the sequence once or twice, she shifted the disc to Lan Wangji’s back, and they did it all over again before she nodded and pulled the earpieces out, letting the tool dangle from her neck as she went back to tap-writing on the metal tablet again.

Wei Wuxian had assumed that she would move on to another set of tests after that, and Lan Wangji started to move as if he expected the same, but instead Wen Qing waved the man back, and then pulled the listening cord off her neck and held it out to Wei Wuxian, one eyebrow raised pointedly.

Which, well! Far be it for him to turn down an open invitation!

Settling the earpieces into place was… ugh, that was not a comfortable sensation, although from the quirk of her lips, at least he wasn’t the only one to think so. Then she set the disc against Lan Wangji’s chest again, and… Oh. Now he understood; it was a device to allow a physician to clearly hear the sound of a patient’s heart… and lungs, apparently, as he discovered when she shifted the location of the disc. That was…

Well. He was a disciple of Yunmeng Jiang. (Or he had been; given Jiang Cheng’s temper the last time they’d spoken, who knew what his official status was at this point.) He’d done plenty of river rescues, both in response to water ghouls and after more natural hazards like floods. He’d seen what water in the lungs could do – even to cultivators, if they lacked Yunmeng Jiang’s specialized breath training. And sometimes the drowned didn’t have access to a healer who could monitor their lungs.

Interesting. There was a pattern emerging here – reliance on tools to assess things that a cultivator would use qi for. Tools that didn’t seem to require the user to manipulate qi at all, although it was obvious that they were dependent on some kind of ward work to activate them…

Although, come to think of it, no blinky lights or beeping from the listening device!

He wondered if they were hard to make. Granted, the harder part would be convincing the traditionalists to actually use something that was not only new, but wouldn’t showcase their cultivation skills… but in his experience, healers were usually the least traditional and the most pragmatic cultivators. The good ones, anyway.

In the meantime… a few more tests and devices, and then Wen Qing nodded to Lan Wangji before turning her attention fully to her recording device, obviously finished.

Lan Wangji had left his odd short underrobe and white overrobe folded neatly on the table. Since he was standing next to them anyway, Wei Wuxian picked up the underrobe, meaning to pass it over.

And stopped short, because oh.

Soft!

Not silk – although there was a sheen to it that was startlingly similar. And… not a woven fabric at all. When he looked closer, the fabric seemed to be made of some kind of silk-fine thread in an intricately interconnected web of knots. A web that flexed in every direction when he tugged on it experimentally, which explained how it could be worn without any folds or ties or fastenings. The fabric itself would fit to the wearer’s body. Which didn’t even get into the dye: a rich, soft evening blue and perfectly even across the whole of the garment.

All right, he had to find out more about this; if Yunmeng Jiang could funnel trade in this through their port, they’d be able to recover their losses from the war and rebuilding in a matter of just a year or two. Yes, Jiang Cheng would huff and grumble – he’d picked up Madam Yu’s disdain for Yunmeng’s close ties to trade. But he wasn’t a fool, either; he knew how important those ties were.

Assuming trade was even feasible. Given how utterly disconnected these people seemed to be from everything, the fact that he’d never even heard of fabric like this when fabric was a prime trade item across the world…

Either they were very, very far from the sect lands – which raised disturbing questions about how he had gotten here – or… Well. That crazy thought about hidden enclaves of immortals secluded from the world seemed more and more plausible.

In the meantime – Lan Wangji hid it well, but those were definitely goosebumps rising on his arms. Which, fair. It was definitely a bit cold in here to be without a robe, especially if you were just standing there. Although the man didn’t seem impatient? It was hard to tell with that stone face, but Wei Wuxian thought he seemed… Amused? Satisfied? Entertained? …as he watched Wei Wuxian poke at his clothes.

Well, fair. He knew how entertaining he found it when people gaped at Lotus Pier’s dyes.

Grinning, Wei Wuxian passed the underrobe over, watching with interest as Lan Wangji pulled it over his head, the flexible fabric stretching at the neck and shoulders until the man pulled it down into position again – although it almost snagged on the neat knot of the man’s hair.

A bun, but no guan – and tied at the nape of the neck, not properly atop his head. Not to mention that Lan Wangji was the only one with hair anywhere close to a proper length; even Wen Qing’s hair was cut at a sharp, even line just below the height of her chin.

Which didn’t exactly disprove the possibility that he’d stumbled on refugees who’d chosen to cut ties to sect and clan and get as far from the war as they could. That, and Lan Wangji’s obvious unwillingness to say where he came from. Which… well. Others might look down on them for that, but he wouldn’t. Not after what had happened when the war was supposed to be done and over.

How is Yiling doing, I wonder.

Well, nothing he could do about that at the moment, even if he could get an answer! Picking up the white robe – hemp or cotton, he thought, and very close-woven, not to mention a snowy white that was as far from mourning white as the clear water from a mountain stream was from a muddy irrigation canal, although oddly scratchy and stiff, especially compared to the underrobe; maybe the contrast was intentional for aesthetic purposes? – he passed it over to Lan Wangji as well.

And it was rather obvious what the next step was going to be. So while Lan Wangji shrugged the white robe on, Wei Wuxian pulled his own outer robe off and passed it to the man in turn.

Lan Wangji accepted it with… probably more respect than it really deserved; Jiang Cheng had grumbled about Wei Wuxian running about in a faded old robe for a reason, after all. Not that Wei Wuxian had particularly cared about the look of it, when the robe was soft and comfy and most importantly warm and easy to curl up in when he could snag a few moments for a cat-nap during the campaign. Sure, the original black dye had faded to a stormy grey – true black was finicky to dye and tended not to hold, especially in direct light when you were running around all day. So? He saved the silk and vivid colors for the layers under the loose overrobe, where they’d be visible but protected.

Granted, after several years in the Burial Mounds, even those were looking fairly worn. He’d kept them clean and mended, but, well, time took a toll on anything. He’d even missed a hole right on the chest…

Wait.

Wei Wuxian paused, his underrobe half-unwrapped as he looked at the hole that had apparently managed to punch through both layers of his underrobes. Despite being a relatively small hole.

He knew that pattern of damage. From the choked noise Wen Qing made as she stared at his chest, she knew it as well.

Except… granted, he generally didn’t bother remembering every little bruise and blow – who had the time for silly grudges like that, anyway? But you’d think he’d remember almost being shot through the heart…

Impact more than pain. The smoothed wood of the arrow shaft in his hand. And being very, very annoyed.

Something else was much angrier. And stirring. Because cleansing didn’t mean erasing, and the Burial Mounds would always remember what they’d been. And that meant they had Opinions.

Wei Wuxian blinked at the sudden wave of… well, not so much memory as remembered sensation, devoid of context. Still. It was enough to answer one question, at least.

Someone ambushed me as I was leaving the Burial Mounds. While I was still in the Burial Mounds.

Someone had probably regretted that. Briefly.

Now the question was… who? And what had happened after?

Nie Mingjue whistled, low and impressed. “Damn,” he said with feeling. “Is that what I think it is, Doc?”

Wen Qing pressed her lips together in a thin line, studying the small starburst scar on Wei Wuxian’s chest. “If you think that’s an arrow that missed his heart by millimeters? Then yes,” she said tightly.

Not that she had much experience with arrow wounds. But she’d originally been a trauma surgeon, before losing one too many patients that she knew she should have been able to save had drawn her into the medical research field. She knew puncture wounds. And there were only so many ways a puncture in a location like that could have happened.

It wasn’t the only scar. Which, in hindsight, shouldn’t have surprised her; she knew that the tumultuous sixth century had been one of more or less perpetual wars. Wei Wuxian carried a sword, he would have been trained in how to use that sword, and going by his response to hostile situations he was perfectly familiar with other people attempting to use weapons on him in turn.

Although not all the scars appeared to be weapon-related trauma. It even looked like someone had tried to brand him at one point, although the burn scar itself was uneven in a way that suggested it had been either unintentional or interrupted.

But the arrow scar was what worried her the most, and not just because it was so close to his heart. The other scars were older, faded. The arrow scar was still pink, raised against the surrounding skin despite its small size. If Wei Wuxian had simply walked through the door of her clinic, she would have said that it had only just healed over.

More worrying was the small frown on Wei Wuxian’s face as he lightly pressed on the scar with his fingertips. As if he didn’t remember getting it in the first place.

Granted, it wasn’t uncommon for people who’d experienced a traumatic injury or awakened from a coma to experience short-term amnesia blocking the circumstances of the injury or the events leading up to the coma. Given that being frozen in ice for fifteen hundred years definitely had to qualify as both, it probably wasn’t surprising that his memory of whatever events had led to the ice would be at least temporarily confused.

Except that would mean he’d gotten the injury immediately before falling into the ice. For that matter, it was possible that he’d healed in the ice, although how that would work in light of the apparent state of stasis he’d been in… Her head hurt.

…Blast. In the chaos surrounding his waking up, no one had retrieved the last layers of ice that had still been attached to him; there was no way to check if there had been blood frozen in it as well. Which meant she had to assume that it had been a fresh injury, and that meant it hadn’t been treated at all, not even to the standards of sixth century medicine.

Well. The good news was, it clearly had healed, and she didn’t see any signs of infection or complications. But she would have to watch that scar carefully.

Nie Mingjue was studying Wei Wuxian’s scars as well. “Well. The good news is that when you’re used to problems that are actively trying to kill you… I doubt even Jin Zixun would rate as more than a blip of annoyance to him.”

Wen Qing personally thought that was underestimating Jin Zixun’s powers of annoyance, but then again… “And the bad news?” she asked dryly, suspecting she already knew the answer.

Nie Mingjue smirked crookedly. “It’s really frustrating dealing with annoyances when you’re used to the sort of problems you’re allowed to stab back,” he said—

And then stopped short, staring, as his slow walk brought him around behind Wei Wuxian. “…Or not,” he said slowly. “What the hells.”

Blinking, Wei Wuxian twisted slightly to look over his shoulder at the man, obviously puzzled by his reaction. His brow furrowed when he took in the man’s stunned expression – then suddenly cleared, replaced by a rueful smile.

Oh, his expression seemed to say. That.

Bracing herself, Wen Qing waved for him to turn around, trying to use her expression to make it an invitation rather than a demand. With a careless shrug, he did.

Oh. No wonder Nie Mingjue was shocked. That was rather extensive scarring.

Next to her, Lan Wangji went utterly still. For her part… Wen Qing breathed through her nose and carefully kept her dark thoughts off her face. Getting angry would be pointless, after all – whoever the proper target of that anger would have been, they’d been dead for over a thousand years. But she did not like the implications of those layered laceration scars.

For now, however… She made a note on her tablet. “I’d like to have him do a mobility test, if we can,” she noted. “Scarring that extensive can lead to long-term damage.”

Lan Wangji started to step forward; Nie Mingjue waved him back. “I’ll do it; I’ve had to do rehab after injuries enough to know the drill. You worry about words.”

It took a few tries to get the idea across; understandable, given that Wei Wuxian had already puzzled out the medical exam paradigm and now they were changing it on him. But he caught on quickly, and as Wen Qing watched and took notes – and, yes, enjoyed the eye candy, she was a doctor, not dead – Nie Mingjue guided him through a very thorough set of stretches and flexibility tests.

Excessively thorough, actually, because about halfway through it shifted from do-as-I-do to a silly game of one-upsmanship. Which ended when Wei Wuxian huffed, did a full backbend, kicked himself up into a handstand, and then pushed off with his hands, flipped in midair, and landed neatly on his feet. Smirking.

Nie Mingjue made a face, then stuck his tongue out at the man. Who just laughed and stuck his tongue out in response.

“Boys,” Wen Qing said sternly, refusing to smile. Really, how old were they supposed to be, anyway?

…Actually, how old was Wei Wuxian? In personal years, not his long centuries in the ice. Going by appearance alone, she would have said not very – twenty or so at the most. But the easy self-confidence he carried himself with was something a person generally had to grow into.

Then again, that sort of growth likely started much earlier in Wei Wuxian’s time. Being settled in your status as a Real Adult was probably less of a concern when you shouldered adult responsibilities as a teenager.

Nie Mingjue at least had the grace to look chastened. Wei Wuxian blinked at her, all wide-eyed innocence. Wen Qing huffed and eyed him pointedly, and just got a sunny smile for her troubles because someone was obviously a born troublemaker.

Which was probably a good thing. Troublemakers tended to be more flexible than people who relied on the rules to dictate what to do.

“Well, it doesn’t look like the scars impair his movement at all,” she noted. Which was good; it meant they didn’t run deep enough to have seriously damaged the muscles and tendons underneath.

“And how,” Nie Mingjue said wryly. “Seriously, we’ve got to get this guy into the gym at some point.”

They did, actually – if only because if she wanted to accurately assess his cardiovascular health, she should have him to a proper fitness test, not just a general health assessment. For now… settling the stethoscope earpieces back into place, she started the exam.

Heart and lungs each sounded strong and clear – good. And he’d twitched a bit when she set the cold metal resonator against his scarred back, so that area at least didn’t seem to have suffered extensive nerve damage. No lesions in the throat – he even had good teeth, the man must have won a genetic lottery given historic dental care! Blood pressure… definitely on the low side, she’d have to watch that. Although it might be a side effect of his overall BMI. He technically wasn’t underweight, but given how much of his mass was obviously lean muscle, she’d prefer it if he added a kilo or so.

Which made her tentatively adjust her sense of his age down slightly. She was used to baby fat disappearing with maturity, but she suspected that some of his lean look came from privation instead.

“Well, Doc?” Nie Mingjue asked as she stepped back and let the man pull his robes back on – and it was striking, seeing him fastening ties and settling folds with the same nonchalant ease that Wen Ning would have with buttons. “Is he going to live?”

She heroically did not roll her eyes. She’d been wondering when someone would resurrect that old joke. “Overall, he’s in good health,” she answered – although she was feeling just annoyed enough to direct her response at Lan Wangji, who was watching everything with his usual quiet attentiveness. “I’d prefer he put on some weight, but that’s easy enough to fix.” She pursed her lips slightly as silk wrapped over that arrow scar. “Anything to do with an MRI is absolutely verboten until we can get X-rays taken, however. This is not negotiable.”

Lan Wangji tilted his head slightly. “The reason?”

“I have no idea if he got all of that arrow out again,” she said bluntly. “Hopefully so, but I know that sometimes arrowheads were designed to break off. Given the location? If the arrowhead is still in there, all it might take is a tiny little shift.”

Nie Mingjue sucked a breath through his teeth. “I’ve seen that, with shrapnel,” he admitted. “Doesn’t matter how small it is, if it puts a hole in something vital and you can’t see it…”

Lan Wangji was unreadable as ever, but Wen Qing did not think she was imagining the sudden intensity of his stare. “Is that likely?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she told him honestly. “I hope not. But I don’t want to assume it isn’t and be proven wrong.”

Nie Mingjue huffed. “Well. Good news is, you’ll have plenty of support for getting those X-rays if you want them,” he said.

Wen Qing grimaced. Oh, she knew. She’d woken up that morning to a barrage of emails and voicemails, all of them boiling down to some variation on either “how dare you presume to dictate the terms of my research” and “we must do this and that and this other test immediately there is no time to waste!” Some managed to be both. Simultaneously, even.

In a strange way, she preferred the former. The ones who puffed and bristled? She’d dealt with touchy Old Guard types plenty. She knew how stiff they could be when reality defied their predictions. The ones who were enthusiastic…

They’ve at least accepted that he’s alive. But they haven’t wrapped their minds around what that means. In their guts, he’s still a research specimen.

Guts were a lot harder to argue with than heads. Heads listened to logic. Guts went “but I don’t wanna” and that was that.

Some of the problem was doubtless still shock. She had to remind herself that it had been less than twenty-four hours since Wei Wuxian had turned everything upside down, even if she felt like a week had passed just in the space of this morning alone. Lan Qiren had deliberately selected scholars he considered properly resistant to romanticism, and that unfortunately went hand in hand with a tendency to lack imagination. And with it, adaptability. It would take time for everything to sink in.

Which meant she needed to thread a delicate balance between giving them that time and ensuring that their inclination to keep their heads in the sand didn’t run rampant over a very lost and confused young man who had not exactly volunteered for the extremely precarious position he’d ended up in.

Speaking of. “Lan Wangji, can you ask Wei Wuxian how old he is?”

“…Mn. I will ask.”

Wen Qing listened to the conversation with half an ear as she finished typing up her notes on the tablet. It seemed like a horribly inefficient system to her – Wei Wuxian was more than sharp enough to extrapolate from a few general terms and gesture, why bother going over every single word?

Then again, Lan Wangji’s goal was not just communication, but helping Wei Wuxian actually learn the language. Seen from that perspective, his approach made sense, she supposed. After all, she’d brought the tablet for note-taking, rather than relying on a printed form, for much the same reason. Much as she would like to ease Wei Wuxian into the twenty-first century, they might not have that much time. He needed to learn to navigate the world as it was now.

Finally, Lan Wangji turned back to them. “He is twenty-two by the old reckoning…”

“Meaning twenty or twenty-one by the modern count,” Wen Qing finished, adding the note to her file. Interesting; older than she might have thought by appearance, younger than she would have thought by his bearing.

“Might be why the scars don’t run so deep,” Nie Mingjue said thoughtfully. “Teenagers and twenty-year-olds tend to heal pretty fast, unlike we older and wiser types.”

“The wisdom is debatable,” Lan Wangji said, so expressionlessly that a long moment passed before Nie Mingjue’s startled bark of a laugh marked the barb striking its target.

Wen Qing snorted, then sighed. “Hopefully that’s the case,” she agreed. “Still, it’s another reason I want X-rays. He looks like he’s… Well. Like he’s been through a war.” Which made her worry about scars that couldn’t be seen. A broken bone that hadn’t set quite right might not actively impede movement, but it could still hurt. She was a doctor; there was no reason for a patient to be in pain if they didn’t have to.

Nie Mingjue’s cheeks puffed with a huff of air. “Someone definitely didn’t like him, certainly. Wonder what he did.”

“Possibly nothing,” Lan Wangji noted.

“Case of wrong place, wrong time, wrong affiliation?” Nie Mingjue nodded ruefully. “I read up a bit on the era. I can see that happening.”

“Exile might explain his presence in Yiling, as well.”

Wen Qing pursed her lips, but didn’t say anything. She had her own theory that she was not inclined to share without speaking to the man himself. Because those whip scars were layered. It had been an ongoing thing, likely over the course of years. Add in Wei Wuxian’s nonchalance about the scars – not shame, not embarrassment, not guilt or grief, he genuinely seemed to consider the scars unimportant…

That wasn’t punishment, political or otherwise. That was malice looking for an excuse.

However. “Enough of that,” she said briskly, tapping Lan Wangji lightly on the head with her tablet. “Focus. Your job is not to puzzle out Wei Wuxian’s story, Professor Lan. Your job is to help him learn what he needs in order to tell his story himself.”

Wei Wuxian burst out laughing at the gesture as Lan Wangji simply looked at her, stone-faced as ever.

Nie Mingjue snorted. “So how long until your baby cousin finishes the quarantine and is back with us again?”

She let the corner of her mouth quirk upward in a dry smile. “Two weeks,” she said. “We’ll just have to manage until then.”

Lan Wangji’s flat stare somehow managed to become even more flintily expressionless.

Wen Qing looked at him. “Lan Wangji. I do not doubt your scholarship, your skill or your dedication. But teaching someone a language requires talking.”

That seemed to give him pause. “I talk.”

“You need to talk more,” Nie Mingjue said dryly.

“More to the point, you need to change your register sometimes,” Wen Qing said wryly. “You’re very erudite, Lan Wangji, but that’s not exactly the best mode for someone who’s only learning.” She distinctly remembered the dictionary her little cousin had kept by his desk specifically to look up the latest obscure chengyu that his newfound mentor had decided to answer a question with.

Somehow, the half-second of pause before Lan Wangji tilted his head ever so slightly came off as distinctly grumpy. “I will endeavor to improve,” he said stiffly, as Nie Mingjue chortled again.

Clearly reading the room, Wei Wuxian reached over and patted Lan Wangji’s shoulder encouragingly, eyes dancing.

OMAKE:

LWJ: I should be a responsible scholar and bring necessary references just in case.
LWJ’s Ego: But, but, how am I supposed to flex my intellectual muscles in front of the very intelligent cute guy?

LWJ: “Fascinating, a close look at folk religion from a chaotic age!”
WWX: “Well, the people I’ve met seem okay, but given what I’ve heard through the door… best to be prepared to invoke my own chaos. Just in case.”

WWX: “Huh, someone tried to kill me.” Beat. “Sucked to be them.”

NOTES

If you’ve read my AtLA/Stargate fic The Dragon-King’s Temple, then you’ve probably noticed I’m handling the language barrier very differently here. Part of that is that I know very little about Chinese and even less about Middle Chinese (the language Wei Wuxian would speak) or Classical Chinese (the written language Lan Wangji is leaning on for communication). And unlike Temple, I can’t just substitute a language I do know and handwave it as “they’re not speaking any existing language anyway.” But the other difference is the one Wen Qing notes here: this isn’t just getting by until someone can go home. There is no going back for Wei Wuxian, he’s going to have to live the rest of his life in this new language, so Lan Wangji is prioritizing actually teaching him the language for real. (And let’s be honest. Lan Wangji is a perfectionist and very ill-suited to pantomime.)

…plus, lack of pressure to work together for Dramatic Escapes, killer cold spirits, all that.

Quick note: as I understand it, when counting age by the traditional method, one is considered a year old at birth, and then two years old at the next New Year… meaning it’s possible for someone to be considered two years old by the traditional count, and one month old by the Western count. And the translations don’t actually indicate which system is being used, on the rare occasions we actually get a solid age for someone.

Chengyu: the four-character idioms frequently used in Chinese. Lan Wangji uses them a lot – which, interestingly, makes him extremely eloquent by Chinese cultural standards, because it means you’ve mastered the language and literature enough to pick the exact cultural allusion to convey what you want. But yes, also shades of “why use two simple words when one polysyllabic one will do?” Plus: eloquent he may be, but do remember that Lan Wangji is petty and rude as a teenager… and, honestly, not much different as an adult, he’s just much more elegant about it.

Gridded essay paper: where Western countries use lined paper, Japan and China generally use a grid layout, especially for essay writing in school. And in case you’re wondering, I’m using “lingfu” for the historical/real-world version, and talisman for the xianxia version, since unlike ofuda the term lingfu doesn’t seem to have entered fandom vocabulary yet. (Darn it. I like it when culturally specific concepts aren’t localized!)

And no, Wei Wuxian is not impressed by cheap ballpoint pens.

“The School of Principle” is the Chinese name for what Western scholars call Neo-Confucianism, which took Confucius’s ideas and revamped them into a coherent whole that became the dominant philosophy of Chinese government from pretty much 1000 CE on. And introduced a lot of the strictest ideas about the social role of women, although obviously those ideas weren’t new, either.

And given his history of getting hit by double-standard rules, and his canonical skill at gauging just how wild he can be before he actually crosses a hard line – and whether crossing those hard lines is worth it – of course Wei Wuxian is going to want to suss out what the rules are while he can still get away with “whoops, didn’t realize!” (And poke at the pretty muscles. Which is purely aesthetic appreciation, he assures you.)

It’s canon that Wei Wuxian is oriented towards speed and agility in his style (it comes up in the waterborne abyss fight). Which takes a lot of body awareness and control… but people who are used to thinking in game terms of strength versus agility tend to forget that stunts like that also take raw strength. Look at gymnasts!

I had so many arguments with my plot bunnies about whether or not I could have Jin Zixun as part of the project. It was a fight between “I need a troublemaker and Jin Zixun is an excellent canon character for that” and “I cannot imagine a universe where Jin Zixun could ever be accomplished enough as a scientist to be accepted onto Lan Qiren’s crack team of researchers, nope.” Then I found a way to get him in anyway… and my plot bunnies decided this meant I could get away with a Sect Leader Yao expy. Sigh! (And the name I gave him means “Heroic,” and yes, that is absolutely a shout-out to nirejseki’s “Chief Cultivator Yao” fic.)

Regarding fabrics: according to some very brief research, silk-blended textiles only go back about six hundred years – long after Wei Wuxian’s era as I’ve set it for this fic! Likewise, the oldest knitted items found seem to be from Egypt after the turn of the first millennium. And yes – combined with light armor, at least, a silk shirt does, in fact, significantly reduce the lethality of arrows! Don’t try it at home, though…

Technically, there should probably be Lichtenberg-patterned burns on the whip scars. But given that Wei Wuxian gets hit multiple times across the torso and doesn’t suffer any sort of heart attack? For the purposes of this fic, I’m leaning towards either the electrical aspect of Zidian being purely cosmetic, or Madam Yu suppressed that aspect. So no lightning burns. (Although there’s an interesting plot bunny to explore there about Zidian’s never-actually-demonstrated exorcism effect being a side effect of electrocution…)

If you pay attention, Wei Wuxian will absolutely push himself right to the edge of his limits, bust through said limits, and keep going… when he has to. But when the situation isn’t urgent, he’s happy to relax and take his time; he goofs off, he plays with A’Yuan, he tries new foods and teases Lan Wangji. He can summon intense focus when needed, and when not needed he doesn’t bother. (One of multiple reasons why I can’t buy the popular “ADHD!WWX” fanon. In the novel, at least, he shows no sign of hyperfocus or being easily distracted. The one place he does appear to display a short attention span, he's either, A, dealing with a teacher whose only lecture method is The Drone and is actively hostile, or B, copying a ridiculous number of lines a ridiculous number of times (Nie Huaisang comments on it!) under enforced-by-magic absolute silence. …And note that he remembers the information from the lectures quite well. And the books he read while Not Copying.)

In fact, one of the funny things about Wei Wuxian’s “bad memory” is that despite the claims of everyone in the novel, Wei Wuxian included, my impression is that he doesn’t actually have a bad memory at all. In fact, considering that he was able to ID the Thousand Holes curse and recall its details simply because he’d stumbled across a reference to it while idly browsing the Cloud Recesses library as a bored fifteen year old, I’d say the evidence suggests that his regular memory is actually quite good. Not to mention that apparently he can play Lan Wangji’s song perfectly from memory despite having no conscious recollection of hearing it – Lan Wangji confirms that he doesn’t misremember music.

The thing is, when he forgets people and events, there’s generally a good reason. Often, what he’s forgetting just wasn’t memorable in the first place, especially in the context of other things happening at the same time. For example: not recognizing Wen Ning after the fall of Lotus Pier? They met briefly, in passing, at a major sect event. It was Just Another Tuesday for Wei Wuxian. And he’s under intense stress when they meet again. Mianmian? I suspect the whole Xuanwu of Slaughter thing kind of wiped out the details of what came before… not to mention that she likely looks rather different after sixteen years. Same with not remembering that he carried Lan Wangji piggyback. Given that at the time he was trying to get them away from a monster out of legends, I think it says more that Lan Wangji does remember that detail than that Wei Wuxian doesn’t…

As for Jin Zixun? The novel explicitly points out that he doesn’t recognize the guy on Phoenix Mountain because they’d never met. (Something CQL changes, if I understand correctly.) Not remembering him at Qionqi Pass? Again, see bigger things to worry about. And the novel does establish that he does, in fact, remember Jin Zixun after that point.

In some cases, his loss of memory seems to be the result of trauma, physical or emotional. The aftermath of the Xuanwu fight and the events after Nightless City? High fever and catatonia are altered states of consciousness that impair memory formation. Of course he doesn’t remember those! Then you have him forgetting, until they are heading into the Second Siege, that A’Yuan existed. Which is the interesting part. Because if he didn’t remember a child he helped raise and cared about a great deal for at least a year, and possibly several years? That’s not a bad memory, that’s either active repression or damage. Either of which makes sense. Active repression because his adopted kid is dead, or damage from being dead himself. None of which is a bad memory.

In fact, he flat-out says it: forgetting is a deliberate choice on his part, because he chooses not to focus on things he does for others, or bad things done to him. It’s not a bad memory, it’s a decision he’s made about how he wants to live.

Finally… When I was rereading the novel, I ran into something that made me do a mental double-take:

Cloud Recesses was not attacked by the Wen. Or at least, that’s not what we’re told about what happened.

Here’s what we know:

One of the disciples beside them whispered, “Of course his face isn’t so great. Last month, the Cloud Recesses was burnt down. You didn’t know yet, did you?”

Hearing this, Wei Wuxian jolted, “Burnt down?!”

In the past few days, Jiang Cheng had heard too many of these stories, so he wasn’t as surprised as Wei Wuxian was, “By the Wen Sect’s people?”

The disciple, “You can say that. You can also say… that the Lan Sect itself burnt everything down. The eldest son of the Wen Sect, Wen Xu, went to Gusu. He accused the Lan Sect’s leader of something and forced the Lan Sect’s people to burn down their own residence! It was given pretty names like cleaning up the place so that it’s reborn from the firelight. Most of the Cloud Recesses and its surrounding forest has been burnt down. Just like that, the hundreds of years old paradise had been destroyed. The leader of the Lan Sect was heavily injured. We don’t even know if he’s still alive. Well, well…”

Wei Wuxian, “Is Lan Zhan’s leg related to this?”

The disciple, “Of course. The first place that Wen Xu ordered them to burn down was the Library Pavilion. He declared that he’ll teach anyone who wasn’t willing to do it a lesson. Lan Wangji refused. He was attacked by Wen Xu’s people and they broke one of his legs. It hadn’t even been healed yet, and he was dragged out here again. Who knows what they’re trying to do?!” (Chapter 52, ExR translation)

From the sound of it, what the Wens did at Cloud Recesses is similar to the start of what happened at Lotus Pier. My read is that, as Wang Liangjiao did at Lotus Pier, Wen Xu simply walked in the front doors, accused the Lan of wronging them, and demanded that the Lan burn Cloud Recesses themselves… and they did so. With only Lan Wangji speaking out in protest at the burning of the library, and getting his leg broken as a result. How exactly his father’s injuries came about is never explained. (Part of me wonders if what happened is that Lan Wangji’s father refused to come out of seclusion on Wen Xu’s demand… and therefore didn’t know what was going on until his house started burning and he couldn’t get out in time.)

But “the Wen burned the Cloud Recesses and then walked away” makes sense of Lan Wangji’s own situation in the indoctrination – he arrives with a group of Lan disciples, same as everyone else; he’s not being dragged up out of the dungeons or anything else one might expect from the captured heir of a defeated clan. Which helps explain why the sects were still desperately pretending that war wasn’t on the horizon.

It also helps explain why Lan Wangji has so much trouble grasping how the destruction of Lotus Pier affected Wei Wuxian. There was no massacre at Cloud Recesses, while Wei Wuxian stared at the bodies of the people he grew up with thrown on a pile, trying to figure out if the body on top was the youngest shidi he’d been playing shoot-the-kite with that morning. The Lan’s home burned, but they weren’t driven out; nearly everyone Wei Wuxian knew was killed.

Chapter Text

There were times when Wen Qing wished her sense of ethics were not quite so insistent.

Not often – if only because she knew where they’d come from. Wen Ning was sweet and shy and honestly a bit of a mouse, but he cared so much about doing the right thing, even when it was hard. Even when he was terrified. Even when it meant getting beaten up or – worse, in his mind – yelled at. How could she call herself his big sister and not honor that soul-deep drive to look the unfairness and callous indifference of the world in the eye and do something about it?

Granted, if she was going to be completely honest with herself, it wasn’t just Wen Ning’s influence. She’d chosen to be a doctor for a reason.

Still. She couldn’t help but think more malleable ethics would definitely be better for her blood pressure.

“Doctor Wen, surely you must see that they have a point,” Lan Xichen said soothingly.

Then again, it wasn’t ethics that had her wanting to snarl like an angry tiger. She was a woman in a male-dominated field, after all. She’d had quite her fair share of being told that she must see this and must understand that.

Always with the same loaded implication lurking under the oh-so accommodating words: I am being Logical and you are not, and so I am Gently Admonishing you and you will admit that of course I am right.

Not that Lan Xichen was conscious of that, any more than the many colleagues she’d dealt with who were convinced that gentle guidance – rather than listening to her – was all that was needed.

She met his eyes levelly. “Professor Lan, the quarantine is a matter of medical necessity. Wei Wuxian’s health and safety must come first.”

On the screen, Lan Xichen raised his hands. “Doctor Wen, you are of course the authority on that topic; I’m not disputing the importance of the quarantine,” he said placatingly.

And now for the “but.” Wen Qing kept her face calm and her expression unimpressed, and braced herself.

“But the Yiling Laozu project is meant to be a team effort. One can hardly call it collaboration when only you and Lan Wangji have access to the research subject.”

“I’ve made the requirements for access clear. And were it an option, we would not have access either,” she replied, keeping her tone polite but unyielding. And trying not to let on how that phrasing – access and research subject – bothered her. “As it stands, Wei Wuxian had already been exposed to us, making this the path of least harm, given that total isolation would be both inhumane and impractical. As it is, only your brother is in regular contact, and he is strictly maintaining quarantine.”

Nie Mingjue couldn’t maintain quarantine standards, not when he had to do his job as head of security. Especially given that the protests at the front gates had yet to simmer down – might actually be escalating – and he was still trying to track down the source of Su Minshan’s contraband bullets. For her part… Wen Qing was doing her best to maintain her own quarantine within the limits of the project team, but that did mean exposure to people who technically had not completed the required isolation period, so she was trying to keep her contact minimal.

And that didn’t even get into the issue of the ones who thought quarantine should only apply to other people. Most of whom had given up on browbeating her in favor of a more sympathetic audience.

And three, two, one…

“Still. Don’t you think these standards are a little… unnecessarily strict?” Lan Xichen asked, frowning slightly. “Maintaining full isolation is asking quite a lot, especially for the visiting researchers.”

Wen Qing did not snort, much as she would have liked to. Because she could hear Professor Yao’s incessant whining lurking behind that particular argument.

“The visiting researchers should be having an easier time of it than those of us who live off-campus,” she said dryly. “Professor Lan, you cannot have a partial quarantine. It renders the entire effort pointless.”

Well. Not entirely true. As with many things, quarantine was at its heart a system of risk management, which meant there were always decisions to be made about what was and wasn’t acceptable risk.

Having done some research on what even common, everyday colds could do to someone whose immune system wasn’t prepared for them? Wen Qing had no intentions of easing up on anything. Especially for the complaints of entitled idiots who thought rules only applied to people who weren’t them.

Unfortunately, Lan Xichen was a peacemaker. Had, in fact, built much of his career – and, she suspected, his self-identity – around being the calm, reasonable party who could build consensus, or at least acceptable compromises, in the constant clash of stubborn personalities that was academia. Which made him an excellent manager… when the primary issue was balancing equally weighted schedules and priorities in a high-profile, high-prestige project that required the collaboration of multiple very big egos.

Except that what this situation demanded was not compromise, but someone willing to draw a line in the sand and stand by it, based on what was right rather than the will of the majority. Or more accurately, the will of the most obnoxious.

It wasn’t that she didn’t understand his conundrum. Lan Xichen wasn’t willing to be the bad guy telling people they couldn’t have what they wanted; when one person said no to many, somehow it was always the one who was considered unreasonable and unjustified, even when that was patently not the case. And she did recognize the importance of ensuring that even the most unreasonable parties at least felt that they were being heard.

Except that for many of them, feel like they’re being heard only happened when they got what they wanted. Which meant that Lan Xichen’s reflex to compromise, in this case, translated to refusing to stand up for the one person in this mess who could not advocate for himself.

Which meant it was Wen Qing’s job to draw the line. Which she could and would. She was a doctor: telling people what they needed to hear rather than what they wanted to hear was hardly an unfamiliar role for her.

“If they truly feel that they cannot maintain the necessary standards for the quarantine,” or more accurately, didn’t want to, “then they must wait until I have administered the most important vaccinations and am more confident of the man’s health,” she said bluntly.

Because it wasn’t only the vaccinations that were important; Wei Wuxian also had to be able to tell her if something was wrong. There were reasons why veterinarians actually had stricter training in some ways than many physicians, and why pediatricians had their own unique specialization. So much of medicine required the patient’s input and feedback; working with a patient who couldn’t communicate was dangerous.

Lan Xichen shook his head wearily. “Doctor Wen, according to the projected timeline you sent me, that could take months,” he said. “Many of them have donors who will not be happy if they have not received an interim progress report in that time.”

As if Lan Qiren hadn’t already planned on withholding publications for a while to ensure research wouldn’t be disrupted during its most delicate phase. She’d read the paperwork she’d signed to participate in the project. “The donors, not to mention the rest of the world, including the entire global academic community, will be a lot less happy if our living miracle gets sick and dies because we were impatient,” she countered, a little more sharply than was probably politic.

Hiding a deep sigh, she leaned forward, lacing her fingers together on the desk in front of her – not that Lan Xichen would see it from his camera angle, but the body language would still communicate to him in a thousand subtle ways. “Manager Lan, Wei Wuxian’s health and safety must come first. He did not volunteer to be involved in any of this, and in the current circumstances he is extremely vulnerable. I’m sorry that the project schedule has been disrupted so thoroughly, but the fact remains: access to Wei Wuxian is a privilege that must be earned. Not a right.”

Lan Xichen raised an eyebrow at her. “A privilege granted to a boy still in secondary school, but not the distinguished scholars who have been part of the project from the beginning?”

Hah. She’d wondered when that would come up. “Your uncle cleared Wen Yuan’s participation because Lan Wangji desperately needs an assistant, and the boy was already involved.” She arched an eyebrow back. “And in case it slipped your notice, Wen Yuan does not currently have access to Wei Wuxian. He is following the exact same protocols I am requiring of every other member of the project.”

In fact, A’Yuan was following every single rule and protocol, and then some. He’d arranged for his friend at the library to drop off any groceries and other purchases at his door. He’d even personally negotiated with Lan Qiren to add a line item in the budget to officially fund Mo Xuanyu’s position in the library as a digitization assistant to ensure that Wen Yuan could get scans of all necessary references, rather than needing to go to the library in person.

And if that meant that the steady income also allowed Mo Xuanyu to stay on campus rather than returning to his aunt’s household… Well, that was between A’Yuan, his squad of schoolboy co-conspirators, Wen Ning, and the walls.

Lan Xichen chuckled. “That’s very true,” he agreed. “He’s quite dedicated.” Sighing, he shook his head. “Well, I’ll speak to the others. I’m sure we can work something out.”

What is there to work out about honor the quarantine? The question was hovering at the tip of her tongue, but Lan Xichen ended the call before she could ask it. Sighing, she closed her laptop.

And then indulged herself for a minute, slumping forward to rest her head on the smooth, cool casing. “Arrrgh…”

Right. Deep breaths.

The good news was that, despite what it felt like sometimes, most of the project team were following the recommended protocols. It helped that many of them had planned from the beginning for their participation in the project to be intensive and relatively long-term; it didn’t take a great deal of additional effort to arrange their obligations so that they could effectively remain in the required isolation. Two who had families in the area and weren’t willing to isolate from them had even volunteered to act as support for supplies and research, although many people were also making use of the same arrangements Wen Yuan was using.

The bad news was that the smaller cadre who thought that the rules shouldn’t apply to them were loud, obnoxious, insistent, and disinclined to listen to anyone except each other. Which meant that they were the ones Lan Xichen was trying to placate. Except that every concession he tried to offer would only be met with a push for more… and at the same time, infuriate the ones who were following protocols, who would start clamoring for concessions of their own in a feedback loop of spite and posturing over status and power.

It didn’t help that there was no guidance forthcoming from Lan Qiren. Wen Qing had tried to push the man into at least calling for revised research plans, to give the project team something to do and get them thinking about how their approach would have to change. But Lan Qiren was stubbornly continuing to approach the situation as if the whole business was nothing more than an inconvenient pause in the project schedule, rather than a fundamental change in the very foundations of the project. And Wen Qing had yet to find a hammer big enough to make the stubborn old goat listen to what he so obviously did not want to hear.

Wen Qing pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed.

Well. At least one person very much was listening, and quite intently. From what Lan Wangji told her, over the past week Wei Wuxian had already picked up enough modern Mandarin to actually hold something resembling a conversation. A very slow, very awkward, very stilted conversation, so long as sentences didn’t get too long or complex, and his vocabulary was still painfully limited simply by lack of exposure – but actual communication all the same.

Given that he had no shared base of reference and it had only been a week? That was amazing progress. Especially given that his sole teacher was a man who had raised succinct to a way of life.

It also meant that yesterday, after extensive research and careful work, Lan Wangji had managed to sit down and at least communicate the basic idea of quarantine to the man.

Well. To be fair, Wei Wuxian probably understood the concept and importance of quarantine far better than anyone who’d grown up in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, with vaccines and antibiotics and modern medicine in all its glorious manifestations. He’d grown up in a time when plague was a matter of when and which, not if, and all too often the only available defense was to keep one’s distance.

Unfortunately, that same research had revealed that Wen Qing’s vaguely remembered trivia tidbit wasn’t entirely accurate. There were references to smallpox variolation being used as early as the Zhou Dynasty, but the references themselves only appeared in much later texts, making her suspect that they were an attempt to manufacture antiquity in a time when the ancients were considered the source of all worthwhile knowledge. The first actual documentation appeared in the 1500s – far, far too late for Wei Wuxian to know anything about them.

Unless the rumors of such inoculations being a secret Daoist magical practice from the turn of the first millennium that had somehow been kept utterly secret while surviving any number of political and religious purges for five hundred years were not only true, but actually stretched back an additional five hundred years, and Wei Wuxian had somehow just happened to be one of the rare few to know about this impossibly iron-clad secret.

Frankly, “actually a cultivator with superhuman powers achieved through lots of meditation” was almost more plausible.

Which meant that they’d be starting from scratch when it came to explaining vaccines, and “I need to do something that will make you miserable now to reduce the chance that you’ll die later” definitely fell under the category of things she wanted to be able to explain first. Her best guess was that it would be at least two more weeks before they even started the vaccination regimen she’d sketched out, given that she would also have to check for allergies and ideally get some kind of medical history established first.

And the whining is bad enough now. It’s only been a week.

Well. The fact of the matter was, nothing was going to happen until they’d cleared away some of the language barrier, and that, bluntly put, was out of her control and in the capable hands of Lan Wangji. So while he handled arming Wei Wuxian with the tools he needed to survive twenty-first century academic politics, she would use her clout as a physician to draw the line in the sand that Lan Qiren wouldn’t and Lan Xichen couldn’t.

…which meant it was time to open her computer and tackle the latest round of “obviously I should be exempt from this nonsense you’re demanding.” Argh.

If Lan Qiren tried to complain about her billing a bottle of painkillers to the project, she might very well strangle the man.

Settling the strap of his bulkier-than-usual pack more firmly over his shoulder, Lan Wangji started up the stairs.

Over the past few weeks, his days had taken on a certain rhythm. Mornings were typically spent on his usual routine, followed by a review of the previous day’s notes and checking in with Wen Yuan on the results of his own research and any resulting suggestions for vocabulary, conversation topics, and possible sources of misunderstandings.

After that, he joined Wei Wuxian in the lab at 8:30 AM – a time he was careful to strictly adhere to. Even with a clock, it was difficult to maintain any kind of consistent time sense locked in a lab with no windows and bright, utterly unchanging artificial lights. Even Lan Wangji found himself struggling to maintain his sense of time in the lab, and he was both accustomed to using clocks and able to leave and reorient himself.

So it was little surprise that Wei Wuxian tended to be a little groggy and disoriented when Lan Wangji first arrived – particularly given that the man apparently was still only sleeping in brief cat-naps, even though they’d found some black-out tape to muffle the worst of the equipment lights. Although Wei Wuxian had also teased Lan Wangji about looking so put together so early in the morning, so it was possible that the man was simply a night owl.

Which was intriguing in its own right. He was accustomed to associating late nights with parties and drinking and a disregard for proper schedules… but that was an association driven by the industrial revolution and easy access to cheap, bright, steady lights. In an era when artificial light was limited to candles and lanterns, expensive and limited in output… outside of special events and duties like night watches, nights would be quiet, simply because the vast majority of people would go to bed with the sun by sheer necessity. Or at least, so he’d always assumed. So what had Wei Wuxian done during the night hours?

Regardless of the hour, however, he always greeted Lan Wangji’s arrival with an enthusiasm that under any other circumstances Lan Wangji would have found rather gratifying. Except that he was painfully aware that for the most part, he was Wei Wuxian’s sole source of human contact. Which was the other reason, besides an attempt to give something resembling structure to the timeless monotony of the lab, why he’d taken to spending the entirety of his day with the man.

Although to be honest, spending time with Wei Wuxian was… not a hardship. After the man’s calm acceptance of Wen Qing’s electronic tablet, Lan Wangji had taken to bringing his own laptop to the lab with him. When one or both of them needed a break from the language lessons, he would take the time to type up his own notes and send them off to Wen Yuan, while Wei Wuxian entertained himself with drawing or music or meditation. Once, he’d even dozed off – understandably, since apparently the evening before Jin Zixun had shown up drunk in the dead of night to demand entrance. Lan Wangji did not blame Wei Wuxian in the least for spending the rest of that night with one eye open.

That stunt that should have gotten the idiot thrown out of the project and preferably off campus entirely, to Lan Wangji’s mind. Unfortunately, Professor Yao’s refusal to castigate his student, and the problem of keeping the events in the project quiet for the time being, had tied Nie Mingjue’s hands on the matter. Something that Lan Wangji believed the security chief would be bringing up with Lan Qiren during their meeting today.

Had anyone described this new routine to Lan Wangji, he would have expected to find it… trying, to say the least. Especially given that Wei Wuxian’s curiosity meant that it was never long before the man was looking over his shoulder, trying to puzzle out what he was doing.

At first, it had certainly been deeply awkward to write notes about a man who was watching him write them, even if – or perhaps because – he couldn’t actually read anything beyond a few characters here and there, and of course his own name. But half the time, it simply launched them into a new lesson. He’d even started showing Wei Wuxian the basics of typing.

It should have been aggravating. Or at least exhausting. Lan Wangji knew his capacity for dealing with people very well, and it was… emphatically not limitless.

But to his surprise, he found his time in the lab… oddly enjoyable. Wei Wuxian was quick-minded, lively, and good-natured, and Lan Wangji found that despite the distraction, his work during those breaks was perfectly productive. It was no hardship at all to spend the entire day with the man, although he would have much preferred different surroundings. The stifling monotony of the lab left even him feeling under-stimulated. He’d never been the sort to play music as he worked, believing it a needless distraction. He was reconsidering that philosophy.

Granted, the context where he truly needed stimulation was the now-mandatory afternoon progress report meeting. And he wasn’t even in the lab for those. Like Wen Qing, he only joined the calls virtually, in order to maintain the physical seclusion needed to uphold the quarantine, but while Wei Wuxian had thus far handled the technology he’d encountered with aplomb (and fascination), Lan Wangji was disinclined to inflict the joys of video calls on him just yet.

Especially when the content of those calls had thus far been endless repetitions of, no, one week was not long enough to achieve fluency in even everyday conversations, let alone the level required for conducting in-depth interviews on the minutiae of dietary culture, not to mention the level of acculturation that would be needed to understand the purpose of such questions – and no, he would not go through a thirty-page single spaced list of questions that ranged from inane to deeply invasive to bluntly inappropriate with Wei Wuxian tomorrow, although Professor Yue was invited to submit his list to Lan Wangji’s assistant for an initial review; no, Lan Wangji would not be conducting the review himself, unless Professor Liu would like him to delay the project further by turning his attention away from the language situation?

Intellectually, Lan Wangji understood his brother’s aim in requiring the daily meetings. With the initial research schedule that had been so painstakingly laid out now rendered defunct and Wen Qing stonewalling attempts to circumvent the quarantine, these daily meetings served to keep the rest of the project team engaged and actively involved in the project and avoided the unrest that the information void of radio silence would inevitably invite.

Emotionally… Well. Wen Yuan had suggested, in jest, that a requirement for speaking in the meetings be that participants attempt to learn Russian… with a non-bilingual native speaker for a teacher and using only educational materials written in that language. Lan Wangji was extremely tempted to pass the suggestion on, not at all in jest.

Because they had made progress in the past week. Enormous progress.

For which the credit definitely fell to the student and not the teacher. Wei Wuxian had no qualms at all about filling in the vast majority of their conversations by chattering away in his limited modern Mandarin, blithely mixed with Middle Chinese as he felt his way through the latest words and grammar they’d covered and undeterred by Lan Wangji’s relative silence and occasional corrections.

Not to mention that Wei Wuxian tended to greet him every morning with his own list of questions to be answered. Usually more questions than they could possibly get to in a day, given that each one tended to involve a slow process of Lan Wangji verifying that he understood the question, answering to the best of his ability, and then ensuring that Wei Wuxian understood the answer – along with all the necessary pauses to go over every new word and twist of grammar that came up in the process. Especially when new questions often came up in the process, because half or more of Wei Wuxian’s questions couldn’t be answered without first explaining something else entirely. Many of them things that Lan Wangji didn’t understand completely himself, because Wei Wuxian, he was coming to discover, was relentlessly curious about anything and everything.

Which was the other reason Lan Wangji had taken to bringing his laptop to the lab. He spent a somewhat embarrassing amount of time just looking things up. Some of them things he might have expected – plumbing, for example. Others… less so. A few days ago he’d had to look up technical information on knitting, because Wei Wuxian was trying to understand how the fabric of his shirt could be so flexible. Even more embarrassing, Wei Wuxian had understood the explanatory illustrations far better than he had. By the end of that interesting tangent, their roles had reversed as Wei Wuxian tried to explain how the process worked to him.

At least it had been good language practice.

To be honest, Lan Wangji kept expecting himself to get impatient or irritated. But watching the way Wei Wuxian was taking the scattered bits and pieces of information and piecing them together into a complex whole that he easily shifted and modified with each new insight was fascinating. Well worth the occasional embarrassment of looking up guides designed for schoolchildren to explain aspects of everyday life that it had never occurred to him to even think about. Wei Wuxian was simply too openly, honestly interested; his enthusiasm was infectious.

Although he strongly suspected that Wei Wuxian’s past teachers had either loved him or despised him, with little middle ground between.

At the same time, Lan Wangji couldn’t help noticing that certain questions were conspicuous in their absence. Questions like who are you people? Questions like where am I, how did I get here, why am I here?

Questions like when can I go home?

He suspected he knew why, as well. He remembered how Wei Wuxian had reacted to Lan Wangji’s own hesitation when Wei Wuxian had asked about affiliations that first evening, the way he’d finally waved the question off without demanding an answer.

On the one hand, Lan Wangji could not deny that he felt a guilty relief at the man’s willingness to not press the question even though he surely had to be wondering. What had happened to Wei Wuxian… it was an important conversation and one that had to happen, sooner rather than later.

He just wasn’t ready quite yet. For all Wei Wuxian’s enthusiasm, conversation was still stilted and awkward, clumsy and limited at best. Not the way that Lan Wangji wanted to give such shattering news to anyone.

He also suspected that Wei Wuxian’s willingness to wait likely had far less to do with patience than with the realization that Wei Wuxian couldn’t risk alienating Lan Wangji at the moment. He was very aware that Wei Wuxian’s current isolation meant that Lan Wangji currently held an undue and frankly disturbing level of influence over the man. It was one of several reasons why he was counting the days until Wen Yuan completed his required period of isolation and could join them again.

The other reason was… irksome as it was, Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue had been partially right when they’d teased Lan Wangji about needing to talk more. Learning a language required a conversation partner, and more importantly, more than one. Mastery of a language required practice. Conversation. Experience.

And Wei Wuxian was going to need mastery. Not only would he have to live the rest of his life in the modern world, but if he wanted people to listen to him, as opposed to treating him as a living historical archive, then he had to be able to speak for himself.

Which was why the bag Lan Wangji had brought to the lab today was significantly bulkier than the norm – enough so that Meng Yao raised his eyebrows when he saw Lan Wangji walking down the hallway. Because one of the lessons Lan Wangji had learned as a scholar was that being listened to took more than words.

Wei Wuxian practically bounced as Lan Wangji entered the lab. “Good morning!” he said, grinning, and blinked at the bulging bag with shameless interest. “What’s that?”

Lan Wangji huffed, amused by the mischievous slant to the man’s smile. What’s that was one of the first phrases Wei Wuxian had learned – had insisted on learning, in fact. It was one he had most definitely mastered. And he used it with a relish that said he was well aware that he sounded like a small child on his first real outing – and that he found this fact hilarious.

Rather than answer directly, Lan Wangji wordlessly set the bag on the thawing table, opening it as Wei Wuxian watched over his shoulder with bouncing impatience… and carefully did not smirk at the startled squeak the man made at the deep, almost shimmering red fabric Lan Wangji revealed.

Lan Wangji tried not to feel too smug at Wei Wuxian’s wide-eyed expression as he pulled the turtleneck out. After all, he could hardly claim full credit for the outcome of this side project. He may have been the one to initially suggest it, but Nie Mingjue had been the one to advise on an appropriate cut for someone who expected to be physically active – and Wen Qing who had pointed out that a fit that a modern person would consider appropriately snug, even relaxed, would likely feel uncomfortably, even dangerously restricting to a man who had lived before the introduction of elastic fibers and stretchy fabrics changed what was possible to do with clothing.

Not to mention that they already knew Wei Wuxian was all too familiar with physical violence, and might very well react badly to anything that put even slight pressure on his throat.

And then it was A’Yuan who had searched until he found a designer who made a shirt matching the design they needed, using the same silk-cashmere blend as the shirt Lan Wangji had worn that Wei Wuxian had admired so much, but dyed a deep, rich carmine red that almost perfectly matched Wei Wuxian’s hair ribbon and the trim on his underrobe, as well as the relatively faded embroidery on his overrobe.

Which still didn’t make it any less satisfying when Wei Wuxian actually flailed a little, hands waving in the air as he briefly abandoned his efforts at modern Mandarin to babble something in Middle Chinese, far too fast for Lan Wangji to even attempt to pick out what tiny bit of that language he had managed to pick up – although having come to know the man, he suspected it was something along the lines of you’re supposed to warn a person before you give them nice things!

Amused, he simply continued to hold the shirt out until Wei Wuxian finally reached out to accept it, and carefully did not laugh at the way the man’s face lit up as he registered how soft it was. As he watched, Wei Wuxian turned the shirt over in his hands, obviously feeling out the way the fabric draped and folded in his fingers, before finally shaking it out to actually look at it.

After a few tries, he managed to find the correct grip for the shirt to reveal its shape. Lan Wangji nodded slightly at the startled look Wei Wuxian gave him as the man realized what he was holding, and held up the second item from the bag in response.

This one – a long jacket in charcoal grey edged with a night-black trim – had been harder to source than the shirt, mostly because they’d been trying to find something that matched the layer of robes that Wei Wuxian wore underneath the loose, untied and rather worn overrobe that served as his outermost layer. It was a tougher material than the turtleneck, with a matte effect to offset the sheen of the red, although still made of silk. Hopefully it would be lightweight enough – and the overly-aggressive air conditioning in the lab cool enough – that layering it over the shirt would still be comfortable; based on Wei Wuxian’s own clothing, his reactions to their own dress, and what Lan Wangji knew of clothing styles of the early centuries of the common era, it was likely that Wei Wuxian would feel uncomfortably underdressed in only the shirt. It was designed to be paired with a belt, but would go equally well with the dai and sash from Wei Wuxian’s own clothes. Even the sword belt – although including that would definitely push the impression from “modern” to “urban fantasy character.”

Wen Yuan’s friend from the library had actually been the one to direct them to a source for the jacket; apparently he was a fan of xianxia cosplay and had known of some designers who specifically made clothing intended to evoke the aesthetic of traditional clothing while still fitting very much into modern fashions.

Clothing that was emphatically not cheap, any more than the silk-cashmere turtleneck had been. Which, as Wen Qing had grimly noted, was half the point.

“Fashion isn’t just about self-expression and keeping the weather off. It’s a kind of social armor,” she’d explained. “Women tend to be more aware of it than men, but it still applies. Dress Wei Wuxian like he’s rich, like he’s someone important, and people will be more likely to treat him like it.”

Which was also one of the reasons why Lan Wangji had deliberately looked for something that would evoke the aesthetic and hopefully the feel of Wei Wuxian’s robes, rather than seeking out traditional hanfu. Leaving aside the problem that “traditional” still spanned fifteen hundred years of sartorial evolution after Wei Wuxian’s time, the other half of the point of the new clothes was to dress him in modern clothes, so that even a glance would reinforce that he was a living man existing in the present, not just a living relic of the ancient world.

They had at least provided Wei Wuxian with some clothing already – mostly spares from Lan Wangji’s own closet, since it was difficult to easily acquire clothing sized for someone as tall as Wei Wuxian, let alone the muscled shoulders and tapered waist. But thus far, Lan Wangji had only offered loose shirts and pants that could substitute for underlayers beneath the robes; he did not want to unintentionally pressure Wei Wuxian into wearing clothing he found uncomfortable, given that the modesty standards of the modern world were quite different from those of the sixth century, and it was likely that the fabric felt flimsy and insufficient. Not to mention that, outside of his workout clothes – decidedly not appropriate for lending! – none of Lan Wangji’s clothing was really designed to allow for the freedom of movement that Wei Wuxian was so clearly accustomed to.

It was possible that the new clothes were… a touch excessive. Lan Wangji’s uncle had certainly thought so, when they explained the project. But Lan Wangji knew that it would be important, when the time came for Wei Wuxian to deal with the project researchers, that he appear properly dressed, in clothing that reflected his importance – not second-hand items borrowed from someone’s closet.

Granted, no one was actually interacting with Wei Wuxian yet, outside of Lan Wangji and Wen Qing, and he thought – hoped – that neither of them were in need of such a reminder. But hopefully that meant that Wei Wuxian would have the time to become accustomed and comfortable with the quirks of modern fabrics and designs, before he had to interact with more people – or one of the researchers got the bright idea of demanding to interview him over WeChat.

To be honest, he was a little surprised no one had tried that yet. One area where the unexamined assumptions about Wei Wuxian’s level of agency worked in their favor, he supposed.

He had gone relatively traditional with the trousers, since they were partially covered by the long jacket. Let Wei Wuxian have some time to get accustomed to modern fabrics and styles before they tried to tackle snaps and zippers, let alone denim and pressed slacks.

Not to mention…

Peering into the bag, Wei Wuxian blinked, pulling out plain white cotton. “What’s this?” he asked, in the exact same tone of bright, earnest curiosity that he used asking about every modern oddity he’d encountered.

Right. This part. Lan Wangji drew in a breath, bracing himself. He could do this. It was hardly anything shameful, just a normal part of everyday attire that everyone wore…

…Nope. The words would not come out. He waved a hand in the vicinity of his own hips, feeling his traitor ears going red hot. And prayed. Technically speaking, in ancient times the trousers themselves were the underclothes. But Wei Wuxian was both intelligent and adaptable. Hopefully the general shape, plus – awkward as it was – Lan Wangji’s own embarrassment, especially in comparison to when he’d taken off his shirt for Wen Qing, would maybe be enough…?

Apparently the heavens were smiling on him. After a moment’s puzzled look, Wei Wuxian’s eyes suddenly widened, mouth shaping a silent “Ah!” of understanding – followed by a wry laugh as the man set the briefs down next to the other clothes now sitting folded on the table. Still smiling, he turned back to Lan Wangji. “Thank you!” he said brightly, grin widening slightly in a way that suggested he had absolutely noticed those tell-tale ears.

Although, there was something slightly conflicted in the glance he cast at the pile of new clothing. Which Lan Wangji thought was perfectly understandable. He and Wen Yuan had demonstrated the use of the sink that first evening, and after Lan Wangji had belatedly supplied the man with a hand towel, he knew that Wei Wuxian had been making an effort to wipe himself down as regularly and thoroughly as he could. But the man was obviously and understandably reluctant to disrobe enough for a proper sponge bath, likely wary of the possibility that he was being watched. After all, he probably remembered that one wall of the lab was actually an observation window, although Wen Qing had kept the cover down since that first morning – had, in fact, changed the control code just in case anyone got some clever ideas.

Then again, he might simply have been hesitant to wash more thoroughly in the aggressively air-conditioned lab with nothing but a small hand towel to dry himself with. To say nothing of the discomfort of finally getting clean, only to put on the same clothing as before, given that he also lacked any way to launder his clothes.

The new outfit, at least, should help with the final problem. As for the other… the next thing Lan Wangji pulled out of the bag was a fresh set of fluffy towels.

Wei Wuxian made a puzzled sound as Lan Wangji deposited the towels in his hands, turning them this way and that with a puzzled expression. He seemed to find the loops of the terrycloth immensely amusing, which didn’t surprise Lan Wangji in the least, but he seemed a bit at a loss in determining what these big pieces of fuzzy fabric were for.

Then Lan Wangji pulled the last item from his bag, and Wei Wuxian’s face lit up with sudden comprehension.

This time, Lan Wangji did allow himself a moment of satisfaction. Finding a source that produced something that Wei Wuxian would recognize as similar to the bath beans used in the past had been a challenge. And maybe not necessary, in the strictest sense; they’d made certain he had a bar of soap as well, and he’d seemed comfortable enough using it after a demonstration. But Lan Wangji had struggled enough with the complimentary soaps and shampoos at hotels during academic conferences to know the visceral difference between usable and comfortable, and he’d wanted to give Wei Wuxian something familiar to use.

Well. Nominally familiar. He was fairly certain the mix of scents used in this particular type would normally only have been available to the very wealthy, especially given the way Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows shot up after he’d given the package an experimental sniff.

Then Wei Wuxian glanced at Lan Wangji, a wry cast to his smile. “I…” he started, and then said something that Lan Wangji didn’t recognize but, based on the dry amusement as Wei Wuxian pointedly tapped the side of his nose, it probably was, “…stink?”

“No,” he said firmly. Which, frankly, was something of a miracle, given the conditions in the lab. It helped that the lab had relatively good ventilation, but given that Wei Wuxian had been stuck in a single room with no windows for days with the bare minimum of options for cleaning himself… Lan Wangji honestly would have expected a great deal more, well, funk to have accumulated, and the responsibility for that would have been on them, not Wei Wuxian.

But while he’d done an admirable job… the Book of Rites had very clear instructions on the importance of maintaining the cleanliness of the body; it was effectively a moral imperative by traditional Confucian values. And on a more visceral level, Lan Wangji’s skin crawled at the thought of being forced to go without a bath or a shower or even fresh clothes or underwear for an entire week. Possibly even longer than that, given how high in the mountains Wei Wuxian had been; mountain streams were the last place anyone with any sense would immerse themselves.

Granted, Wei Wuxian probably had more tolerance for it than Lan Wangji, since he’d lived in an era when hopping into a hot shower every morning wouldn’t have even been an option, let alone at all practical. But that was no reason why he should have to go without now.

And from the way his whole body lit up with enthusiasm as the implications sank in, he was very, very ready for a chance to get properly clean.

It was only the work of a minute or two to shift the privacy screens over to the sink and arrange them into a kind of bathing stall; Nie Mingjue had gone over the security footage and provided Lan Wangji with instructions for how to set it up to create a genuinely private space, blocked off from the cameras. It helped that they’d managed to acquire two shorter screens that blocked off the counter areas on either side of the sink as well. 

By the time they were finished, they’d created a cozy little nook with enough space for Wei Wuxian to set the towels and the new clothes on the bit of counter space inside the screens, where they’d be accessible but hopefully stay dry. The floor wasn’t an option; since there was no way he could actually wash in the sink, all the water was going to collect on the floor until it reached the drain underneath the thawing table.

This was going to make a mess, no way around that. But a necessary mess. And Lan Wangji had a key to the janitorial closet where the mops were kept and he knew how to use it.

Metal clicked against metal. Blinking, Lan Wangji turned to see that Wei Wuxian had undone his sword belt and set his sword on the stainless steel countertop outside the screen, where it would be out of the way and safe from the water. His black dizi joined it a moment later, as he began unwrapping the sashes of his dai from around his waist. Once they were off, he folded them and set them on the counter as well.

And then paused, looking over his shoulder at Lan Wangji with a sly smile that promised mischief.

Lan Wangji braced himself. Over the past week, he’d become quite familiar with Wei Wuxian’s occasionally quirky sense of humor. Although he couldn’t help a moment’s confusion; the man’s pranks and jokes didn’t usually come out of nowhere, so why…

Grin broadening, Wei Wuxian veeery slowly began opening his outer robe.

…Oh.

Lan Wangji cleared his throat slightly and deliberately ignored the fact that his ears had unquestionably just flamed red again as he tipped his head towards the door. “I will be in the next room,” he said, desperately grateful that these at least were phrases he and Wei Wuxian had already established and therefore needed no additional explanation. “Call if you need anything.”

Wei Wuxian mock-pouted, grey eyes dancing with unabashed amusement at Lan Wangji’s hasty retreat, and then stepped behind the screens, pulling the last panel into place behind him.

Lan Wangji held back a huff as he gathered his now significantly emptied bag and turned to the door. It truly said something that Wei Wuxian would be so skilled at teasing when they could still barely communicate beyond a few set phrases. When the man had better mastered modern language, he was going to be a menace.

Lan Wangji was almost looking forward to it.

Then he stepped out into the hallway again, and the moment the door closed behind him, Meng Yao gave him a knowing smirk that instantly raised his hackles. “Going to the observation room already?” he asked, with just enough emphasis on observation to make the implications crystal clear.

Lan Wangji gave him a flat stare before turning and stalking to the door of the adjoining room that was only technically an observation room because the window was covered and locked, thank you!

For once, he was actually glad there was a morning meeting scheduled. Hopefully by the time it was over, people would stop being ridiculous.

Hope was a virtuous emotion. He would not be taking criticism on this matter.

Once the door had latched closed behind Lan Wangji’s rapidly retreating presence, Wei Wuxian laughed softly to himself. Really, Lan Wangji just made it so easy. He almost felt bad about teasing the man.

Almost!

Briskly, he pulled off his robes, folding them and pushing the small screen by the odd well-basin aside to set them next to Suibian and Chenqing. Although he did pause for a long moment to study his inner robe more carefully.

As he’d thought. Around the torn arrow-hole in the chest, he could just make out a hint of discoloration. Nowhere near as large as it should have been, though. And faint, faint enough that it would have been easy to miss without the hole in the fabric directing the eye.

Then again, cold water is good for washing out blood. I suppose ice is the same?

On the other hand, cold water only worked if you got to the blood before it set. Which matched with the relatively small area: whatever had happened to lead to him apparently being in ice (seriously, again, how), it must have happened immediately after or even during the ambush.

Happy thought, that. Not.

Shaking his head, Wei Wuxian folded the inner robe and added it to the pile, then quickly shucked his trousers and boots to add them as well before pulling the screen back into place. Lan Wangji had been so very particular about its placement, after all.

To be honest, he did feel a little bad about taking advantage of the man’s conscientiousness like this. But needs must, particularly given that he had yet to determine how he was being watched despite the apparently closed-off room. Which meant that Lan Wangji’s concern for privacy was giving him the first opportunity since he’d awakened that he could be fairly certain he was genuinely unobserved.

Reaching up, he tugged the ribbon holding his ponytail loose, and took a moment to run his hands through his hair, finger-combing it out until it lay more or less smooth. He so very, utterly, desperately wanted to wash it out properly now that he had a chance…

But even with those wonderfully fluffy drying cloths, it would take forever to dry, and in the interim he’d just get his interesting new clothes wet, which struck him as rather ungrateful. Not to mention that sitting around in the odd dry chill of this room with wet hair didn’t exactly sound very pleasant.

Honestly, he was tempted to do it anyway. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d jury-rigged a cleansing talisman to dry things off quickly. But he was not going to waste what was left of his original supplies on it, and he was still figuring out how the strange new paper and writing tools he’d acquired would affect their use in talismans.

It didn’t help that he was wary of messing with talismans in the open. He still wasn’t certain how much these strange people knew about talismans and cultivation in general. But given that they had their own unfamiliar tools, he was inclined to keep some of his more creative options tucked in his sleeve. Just in case!

Besides. Given what he was planning… better not to have water dripping in his face.

So with a sigh, he gathered his hair up in a heavy bun, using his ribbon and a battered hair stick from his pouch to hold it in place. Then he turned the handle of the spigot and started the flow of hot water.

And seriously, he wanted to know how they did that. Oh, Lan Wangji had tried to explain the system of tubes and pipes that carried the water from its source to the spigot. Which admittedly had been more confusing than illuminating; language aside, he got the amusing feeling that Lan Wangji didn’t quite know how the system worked. Which was fair enough; helping irrigate the crops in Yiling that first year had been a novel experience for him, as well. Using something didn’t mean you knew how it worked, just ask the many, many cultivators who never bothered to carry more than pre-made talismans.

But that had been about how they moved the water around. He wanted to know where it came from. Surely they didn’t have servants who literally did nothing all day but chop wood and tend fires to keep water hot just in case someone wanted some – emperors couldn’t afford that even when they weren’t busy trying to kill each other!

Perhaps they were located on or near a natural hot spring? It would at least explain the abundance of readily available hot water, although it was odd that there was no mineral tang to it if that were the case. And even assuming that there were hot springs available, why would they waste something as valuable as hot spring water on a prison?

Well. To be fair, he was fairly certain that this place wasn’t actually meant to be a prison, despite the constant surveillance he could sense and his, well, current circumstances. He just had no idea what it actually was. A healing hall would have been his next guess, given that he had been injured and unconscious – and from everyone’s yelling and running about that first day, they hadn’t actually expected him to wake up, at least not so soon.

Except that he could just imagine the reaction of just about every healer he’d ever met to being asked to work in a space like this. How was anyone supposed to recover properly with the ambient qi so… sterile and stagnant? And while these people didn’t seem trained in working with or reading qi, Wen Qing’s distaste for the space had been obvious every time she’d visited.

Not to mention that she always had to bring her tools with her. Pretty telling, that.

But while he might be at a loss regarding what this room was intended for, he certainly could see what it was – and that was extremely utilitarian. This was a space for working and getting things done, not the sort of refined area meant for sect leaders and respected guests. So again: why would they go to the trouble of supplying it with hot water?

Then again, I’m certainly not complaining!

Chuckling at his own wandering thoughts, Wei Wuxian picked up the washing cloth he’d received a few days earlier – no reason to use one of the nice drying cloths for this! – and began scrubbing, starting with a quick pass over his face and then working down his neck and then shoulders. And allowed himself a happy sigh. The odd pale bar Lan Wangji had supplied earlier had certainly been effective, but… Well, he’d quickly learned to be judicious in how much he used it, since it tended to leave his skin feeling… parched and stretched thin, was maybe the best way to use it. It had made him wish for a bathing oil – but of course he’d run out of that long before he’d left the Burial Mounds.

Which. He’d noticed that there wasn’t nearly as much grime on his skin as he had expected. True, he’d done his best to scrub down thoroughly before setting out from the Mounds. But it did support his suspicion that the ambush had happened quickly, before he’d gone very far.

Hopefully it also meant that he hadn’t been unconscious for too long. He’d spent several years cleansing the Burial Mounds; hopefully that would have been long enough for Jiang Cheng’s temper to cool enough to think with his sense rather than his insecurities again. But if Wei Wuxian returned late, the whole mess would just cycle back and start all over. Not to mention anything else that might have happened.

And on that note…

Scrubbing at his chest, Wei Wuxian casually began to whistle.

He kept it light, relaxed; one of the lilting folk tunes he’d picked up going past the fields in harvest, as whole communities turned out to tend the fields and bring everyone together.

In the corner of his little nook, shadows began to gather.

Still whistling, Wei Wuxian kept his gaze lowered, only watching the twist of shadow from the corner of his eye. From experience, he knew that how visible resentful energy was frequently varied from person to person, and even one ghost to the next – but one consistent thread was that it became far easier to see the moment someone else drew attention to it.

Which was part of why he’d waited. Better not to risk the chance that one of his invisible watchers was one of the more sensitive ones. It would raise some awkward questions!

So instead of watching… he listened.

There was no point in risking Empathy right now – even if he miiight have exaggerated the degree to which the practitioner would need the assistance of a third party to break out of it to others and in his notes. He never would have walked out of the Mounds in possession of his own mind and body if intervention was actually as necessary as he claimed. But it was dangerous enough that having someone else helping you was definitely the better way to do things. If only because the technique left the practitioner insensate to anything happening around them while it was in effect.

Definitely not worth the risk, much as he would have liked to get an insider’s view on this strange place. Not yet. For what he needed right now, concentrating on the whispers would be enough.

After all, that had always been one of the real advantages of this new form of cultivation. Calling the angry dead to fight was impressive, but not exactly efficient, since he was limited to the dead who were already motivated to fight and the ones he could persuade to either redirect their resentment or who just decided to tag along. The former were pretty much restricted to their own dead – which tended to make his allies twitchy and thus was just a bad idea in general – and the occasional deeply embittered enemy conscript. The latter took time, since he had to find and persuade the dead one or two or a handful at a time.

But he could learn so much listening to whispers.

Ghosts were people. And people liked to talk. Especially when they’d died badly and had opinions on the matter. Tracking the Wen forces was easy when they had a (not-so!) silent entourage of dead civilians and cultivators following their every move.

Which was part of why he and Jiang Cheng had been very cagey about how, exactly, they had been getting their information. All things considered, far better to have their allies focused on the fierce corpses than thinking about the possibility that the skeletons in their closets might be telling tales.

To be honest, going back to the Burial Mounds had been something of a relief; the resentment there had its own concerns, and most ghosts actually stayed away. He hadn’t exactly set out to be a spymaster, after all!

But he’d also be a fool to ignore a useful source of information about his surroundings.

It’s hot. So hot.

It was thin, thready, fading in and out from even his ability to hear. There was nothing male or female in that voice, just lost.

My throat hurts. I’m so dizzy. Why am I dizzy…?

Oh. He winced a little. He’d dealt with fire-dead before, both the bodies and the spirits left behind. In a way, the ones who died to smoke rather than flames were the hardest; with their bodies untouched, many never even realized they had died… and sometimes were all the more dangerous for it.

And this one… this was an old ghost. The clarity of who it had been in life had faded over decades of existence until there was little left but the memory of its death, on the verge of becoming something both less and more than a simple ghost, and potentially very dangerous…

Except… it was such a little thing. There was no great resentment surging through it, no fury at its death, no lingering grudges or hate. From everything he could feel, it was lingering mostly out of confusion, not some overwhelming emotion binding it to a life lost and away from release and reincarnation.

Which… made no sense!

Any ghost this small, this harmless, shouldn’t even need any kind of spiritual intervention beyond a basic calming and cleansing ceremony to liberate it, the sort that people did whenever there was a birth or a death in the community! Even if the victim had been unknown, holding a cleansing after a fatal fire was just common sense and basic practice, the sort of thing even village children knew to do!

Except. Not only had this lost one been missed, they weren’t alone. Others were gathering as well – many of them even older, wispy echoes of the beings they once had been, little more than scraps of essence without memory or shape.

Which was enough to set alarms clanging in the back of his mind. This wasn’t right. Not only because those fragile remnants of wraiths deserved the help they needed to pass on safely to their next incarnation. Resentment built on resentment, and with this many drifting spirits, any soul eater that stumbled on this place would be able to feed its power to frightening levels in a matter of just a few days.

Not to mention the risk of a stronger ghost doing the same. Like the one that had just surged forward at him—

Well. Started to. Until it actually looked, and suddenly realized it had just made a very big mistake.

it wasn’t my fault it was their fault they deserved it they were the ones in the way they had to go they were the traitors everyone knows I was doing the right thing I wasn’t the bad one

Eyes narrowed, Wei Wuxian added a sharp, piercing rebuke to his whistling, forcing the surging resentment to flinch back and away, and also cutting it off from the first ghost, which had cringed away even as the wisps of its own energy started to merge with the raging specter.

Which was enough to tell him that the two ghosts were likely exactly the same age, even without the crackle of remembered flames that betrayed how the second had met its death.

Although the sense of self – or perhaps better to think of it as shape and purpose – was far stronger with the second. Not surprising, really. The obsessive focus of fanaticism often led to very strong resentful energy after death. He’d seen the old battlefields from the rebellions at the fall of the Han. Not all the rebels had been fanatics, of course – not even most of them. But those who were… some of those spirits still had yet to be cleansed, even after three hundred years.

Not that all the fighting in the years since had helped matters. More than a few of those ghosts had formed the seeds of the sort of abysses and corrupted lands that no one could handle. Although he’d been thinking of trying…

But that made the situation here all the more disturbing. The ghost wasn’t a powerful one, no. But it was definitely trouble waiting to happen.

Tapping his fingers, Wei Wuxian considered his options for a moment, and shifted from whistling to simply humming. His lips could use a break – and at this point, if he kept calling resentful energy in, he would run the risk of it overflowing beyond the bounds of this protected little nook Lan Wangji had so considerately made for him.

Besides. He’d gathered enough to draw a few tentative conclusions.

Most significant – the fire ghosts were old. Fifty years or so, if he had to guess. And yet they seemed to be the most recent ones, at least within his range and unbound to a single place. Which strongly suggested that there hadn’t been much in the way of violent death in this area since.

So. Something had happened here, roughly fifty years ago. A civil war or some other kind of internal power struggle, if he had to guess. Something that had disrupted things long enough that by the time people could spare a thought for calming ceremonies, the fact that said ceremonies hadn’t actually happened yet had slipped everyone’s minds. And the years since that time had been peaceful enough that no new ghosts had formed.

Which was a little unsettling, given what he’d gathered about some kind of factional conflict on the other side of the door; fifty years sounded just about long enough for people to forget just how much wars sucked.

But if the area had been peaceful for decades, when Wei Wuxian knew intimately how disruptive Wen Ruohan’s expansion and the Sunshot Campaign had been…

Isolated. Extremely isolated.

Which, well, it wasn’t like he hadn’t already guessed as much, given the unfamiliar tools and fabrics and their distinct lack of knowledge about the war. But it might explain why no cultivator had been through to do anything about the ghosts; true, the larger sects tended not to act on anything that wasn’t powerful enough to build their reputation, but normally smaller family sects and unaffiliated cultivators were good about dealing with smaller problems before they could escalate. But if this place was so isolated that even rogues tended not to wander through – and they didn’t seem to even use spiritual tools; everything he’d seen thus far had seemed mechanical at its core…

Well, that was a hair-raising thought. With this sort of neglect, what condition were the local dragon-lines in? The last thing anyone needed was a disruption in the spiritual meridians of the earth itself!

On the other hand, there hadn’t been any fierce corpses lumbering up at his call, so at the very least, the dead were being tended to, and the living remembered them. And he couldn’t feel any of the worn tension that had marked the edges of the Burial Mounds, so at worst the dragon lines were only shadowed, not warped.

And, well, whatever had happened before, there was certainly a cultivator here now!

He shifted back to whistling, with a sharp trill to scatter the accumulated energy of the angry ghost and send it retreating. He’d have to deal with that one eventually, of course; it certainly wasn’t going to pass on its own if it was still lingering after fifty years. But better to save that for later. It was relatively weak, certainly, but liberating it would take time… and if it was too locked in obsession, well, even a weak ghost could get very nasty, and he’d rather hold off on anything dramatic until he had a better idea of his own situation. Besides, maybe he could learn enough about what had happened to improve his odds of actually releasing the spirit rather than sealing or eliminating it.

But the others…

He shifted his whistling, dropping into a low, quiet lullaby that projected peace. Quiet. Calm.

It’s over. You can rest now.

And that was all it took; with a shimmer like a soft, tired sigh, the fire ghost steadied, strengthened… and then faded away completely, passing on to whatever came next.

Seriously. How had that one lingered for so long?

Wiping away the last residue of the bath beans, Wei Wuxian turned the song to the other wisps of spirits that had gathered. There was no reason to leave them adrift; he was hardly in such desperate straits that he needed the little strength they could muster, and none of them were bound so tightly to the world that they needed more time to distance themselves from their resentment.

In fact…

Frowning slightly, Wei Wuxian reached for the fuzzy cloths and began drying himself, still thinking hard. Because those wisps should not have been there in the first place. Even if no cultivators had been near this place in decades – even a century! – just the familiar everyday cycles of life and the annual festivals should have been enough for most of them to settle their attachments and move on. And… now that he’d cleansed his immediate surroundings, he was abruptly realizing just how much resentful energy was in the area. Even the ambient qi felt… unsettled. Off.

Really, this was embarrassing! He should have noticed this sooner!

Granted, it had been this way ever since he’d awakened here. And given that he’d been in the Burial Mounds for three years now, and even after the work he’d put into cleansing them they’d still been far worse than this, he could probably be forgiven for being a little slow to notice.

Still. What was going on here?

Well, he’d at least verified one thing – given the relative weakness of the lingering energies, he was fairly confident now that his first impression had been right: this wasn’t actually a prison. Even if no one died in them – rare! – prisons tended to accumulate resentment and misery. Which did support Lan Wangji’s claim that they were keeping him here because they were concerned about diseases for some reason.

Then again, there hadn’t been any plague-dead among the ghosts, either. So while Lan Wangji seemed earnestly honest… Well, that hadn’t been the clearest conversation, he might have misunderstood something!

And now that he’d accomplished what he’d planned to do – and finally, finally felt properly clean, except for his hair! – he probably shouldn’t keep the man waiting too much longer. And while the bright red ears and gloriously grumpy flat stare were highly entertaining, the man had gone to some trouble to provide Wei Wuxian with new clothes. He might as well try them!

The strange legless trousers – under-trousers? – were… unsettlingly snug, but not actually uncomfortable. And the trousers themselves were familiar enough, although the silk and dye were distinctly high quality. The high-necked red underrobe, though…

Well. He was at least accustomed to arrow sleeves that ran close to the arms with fitted cuffs – no self-respecting Jiang was going to mess with multi-layered, wide-sweeping sleeves like the Lan wore when a night hunt might take you underwater without warning. But the way the luxuriantly soft, flexible fabric draped across shoulders and chest…

He’d felt less exposed going bare-chested in Yunmeng’s hot summers!

Of course, it also didn’t help that the robe ended barely a handspan below his hips, much too short for anything even resembling modesty. He normally gloried in his own shamelessness, but even he would need time to get used to this!

On the other hand, this did seem to be the standard style of the region. So get used to it he might as well.

And then there was the color – a deep, practically decadent red that shone where the light struck it with the soft luster of silk. Like the blue shirt he’d admired a few days ago, the color was perfectly even across the entire garment, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to even try imagining how much it would cost to achieve such a deep color across an entire garment, rather than simply trim on the visible edges. Who wore that much red outside of nobility and weddings?

The overrobe was equally striking – a dark charcoal grey that was intentional, not just a faded black, especially given the stark black edgework. Pulling it on, Wei Wuxian ignored the strange narrow belt – he’d just wrap his own dai over it instead, that would definitely be more comfortable – and instead paused to consider the effect.

The clothes were striking; there was no mistaking the high quality of the fabric and stitch work. But they also didn’t match what he’d seen anyone else in this place wearing.

If he were dealing with, oh, the Jin, he’d suspect that was a deliberate sartorial snub. They certainly had no reservations about marking someone as an outsider. But that didn’t fit with the obvious effort and expense that must have gone into acquiring the clothes – or Lan Wangji’s character, for that matter. And it hadn’t slipped his notice that Lan Wangji had clearly gone out of his way to provide him with something that was close to his own clothes in both style and color – rather different from, say, the Wen or the Lan, who expected even guests to don their colors and styles in cultivation conferences and lectures.

Courtesy, then? An effort to make sure he was comfortable? Which honestly seemed equally odd – it was a great deal of trouble to go to on behalf of an unknown cultivator!

Then again, he rather got the impression that Lan Wangji was simply like that. Courteous to the bone, even if it sometimes felt like the rules of courtesy were turned sideways to what he expected.

And it was a very nice outfit! Even if parts of it felt very strange. And…

Wei Wuxian chuckled to himself, looking down at his bare feet. Yes, the bare ankles and toes poking out like that definitely made the overall effect a little silly!

Ah well. It wasn’t like Lan Wangji had brought in a cobbler to take measurements, and badly fitted shoes could frankly be worse than no shoes at all. And he’d noticed that even among the small handful of people he’d met so far, there had been a rather dizzying variety of footwear.

Not that he normally spent much time looking at peoples’ feet. But you could learn a great deal from someone’s stance! And the odd squeaking and clacking had drawn his attention!

And some of the footwear here was very odd indeed. Wen Yuan’s probably the most so; the boy had been wearing bizarrely bulky shoes made of an odd patchwork of fabric and leather, still brightly colored under a patina of dust and wear, with soles made from some strange thick white material that actually flared out beyond the edges of his feet and decorative patterns on the bottom, still visible despite obvious wear flattening the pattern out near the heels and toes.

Clearly the boy had never needed to worry about evading human trackers; Wei Wuxian could think of several moments where such distinctive footprints would probably have gotten him killed.

And that didn’t even get into Nie Mingjue’s worn leather boots, fastened with some kind of cord criss-crossing between metal hooks and soled with a hard black material that had to add a solid finger-breadth or two to the man’s already impressive height, with the sole itself broken into outcroppings like jagged teeth. And then there were Wen Qing’s slippers, which appeared normal until you realized that the heels were propped up on spikes.

…Balance training? Maybe? Or maybe she just liked the sharp clack-click the spikes made with each step. Not to mention that those spikes would probably do not insignificant damage if a strong kick planted one somewhere sensitive. Not that that really seemed her style, but it wasn’t hard to imagine her valuing it as a fallback plan.

Compared to those, Lan Wangji’s glossy white leather shoes with their slightly elongated toes were practically unremarkable. Outside the eternal question of how in the world the man managed to keep them clean.

All in all… his own boots might be distinctly worn around the edges, but they were unlikely to stand out any more than his new clothes already seemed to. So he might as well stick with those and be comfortable—

Except that, when he pushed the screens aside, his boots weren’t where he’d left them.

Very deliberately, Wei Wuxian paused, eyes sweeping the room as he took in what was there. And more importantly, what wasn’t.

Well. This complicates things a bit, doesn’t it.

What had happened was obvious enough. Whoever they’d been, they hadn’t even bothered to avoid the water on the floor, leaving a set of tracks leading straight to the door.

Which just left who, why… and what he was going to do about it.

Well. First things first. An advantage to using whistling as a cultivation technique: when he was so inclined, he could whistle very, very loudly.

Only a few moments later, the door opened and Lan Wangji walked in… and froze, taking in the sight of Wei Wuxian standing in the middle of the room, barefoot, arms crossed over his chest and not even trying to hide the hard look on his face. 

Steadily, Wei Wuxian met the man’s eyes. Then, pointedly, he tilted his head towards the empty counter where he’d left his clothes and belongings, before dropping his eyes down to the floor.

He saw the moment that baffled confusion became comprehension as Lan Wangji registered the wet footprints on the floor, followed by…

Huh. So that was what incandescent fury looked like on the man. It… actually wasn’t all that different from his resting expression, really. Which was honestly kind of amusing!

Not to mention a relief. In the absence of any other source of information, he’d been forced to rely on his impression that Lan Wangji was being… well, maybe not honest exactly – there’d been far too many moment-too-long hesitations, too many little details that didn’t quite add up – but at least sincere in his efforts to help Wei Wuxian. He certainly hadn’t seemed the type to participate in something quite so… underhanded.

But Wei Wuxian had to consider the possibility. Particularly given that the very first moment he’d let himself be vulnerable and distracted, this had happened.

But from the way Lan Wangji turned sharply on his heel to throw the door open again, he definitely was not pleased. Relaxing slightly, Wei Wuxian listened to the conversation – much too fast for him to actually understand what they were saying, of course, but inflection alone could tell him a great deal. Lan Wangji’s tone was sharp, clipped – even for him, which was saying something. But the guard…

Discomfort. Dismay. Apologetic, but in a confused way.

It was a familiar enough tone; he’d certainly heard it plenty of times, when Madam Yu had swept in to contradict Sect Leader Jiang’s orders. And during the Sunshot Campaign, because the problem of an alliance of supposedly equal powers was that sometimes you had three people in camp giving conflicting orders. And it wasn’t uncommon for commands to be flung in the direction of the nearest subordinate without concern for whether they were your subordinate, leaving the subordinate to decide if it was better to obey for the sake of the alliance or stand their ground for the sake of their own sect’s chain of command. And whether their own leader would back them if someone got tetchy over their “arrogance” if they chose the latter.

So. Someone with more influence than the guard, and perhaps the guard’s immediate commander, had come through with contradictory orders.

Which meant that the factional tension he’d noticed on the other side of the door was escalating. And, notably, wasn’t staying on the other side of the door now.

Shoulders a stiff, hard line, Lan Wangji started to stalk out the door – then paused and turned to look at Wei Wuxian.

“Apology,” he said stiffly, awkwardly – and in the language of the sects, rather than the local tongue Wei Wuxian had been learning. For emphasis? Sincerity? “Wait. Return will.”

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him rather harder than the norm.

Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow. Wait?

I don’t think so!

Really, he was feeling a bit irate. Taking Suibian and Chenqing was one thing; he was honestly astounded he’d been allowed to keep his weapons at all. Even the boots made sense – harder to escape in bare feet, after all, even if it didn’t seem quite cold enough for there to be snow on the ground outside, even taking into consideration the closed-off space he was in.

But even the Wen had had face enough to demand weapons be handed over. Sneaking in to steal them when he was bathing? That was simply tacky.

And taking his clarity bell? The pouch with the comb Shijie had given him? His underrobe?

Rude!

Clearly he’d been a little too well behaved, biding his time to get a better grasp of the situation. Jiang Cheng would probably think he was possessed!

On the other hand… Given that Lan Wangji appeared to have been against this little stunt, he didn’t want to put the man at a disadvantage in whatever power struggle was going on. Which meant that he probably should stay where he was for the time being. If only because it was a defensible location, should things come to that.

Well then.

Pursing his lips, he focused inside, assessing the state of his core. After so much time meditating – after all, he didn’t exactly have much else to do! – it wasn’t as drained as it had been when he’d first awakened, but that odd bruised sensation was still aching at him, only marginally improved. Whatever had happened, recovery was apparently going to take a while.

At least it was improving; hopefully that meant that his core would recover, given time.

And for now, it was strong enough and stable enough for what he meant to do.

He grinned. Time to set some boundaries.

 “I’m still trying to find out where Su Minshan got the bullets he was using,” Nie Mingjue reported. “He insists that he received them from our equipment provider with all appropriate clearances and assumed that they were distributed to all security personnel in light of the heightened security needs of the project.” 

Bullshit. There was no way that the requisitions office would even have acquired live ammunition without an insane amount of paperwork that would have piled up squarely on his desk. They were campus security, not the army!

If this whole mess was Su Minshan’s idea, then either he’d gone to the black market for weaponry – not impossible, but damned unlikely – or at least one other person had been involved, someone who knew how to fudge the paperwork and slip the package out without Meng Yao catching them.

And that was the optimistic scenario.

Aloud, he concluded, “I think he’s lying, but if that’s the case, he’s sticking to his story.”

Lan Qiren’s scowl was black as thunder. “That man brought a lethal weapon onto campus and fired it at a teenage boy. Why has he not been fired and turned in to the authorities?!”

I wish! “Believe me, I’d love to,” Nie Mingjue said bluntly. “Unfortunately, there are two complications. The first is that if we do that, we lose our best lead on where he got those bullets.”

Lan Qiren raised a skeptical eyebrow in an expression that made it perfectly obvious that he and Lan Wangji were related. “I was under the impression that investigation was the point of handing things like this to the authorities,” he said curtly.

“Except for the second problem: the minute he realizes how deep in it he is, he’s going to be singing like a bird to anyone and everyone who’ll listen.”

Not that it was going to actually help his case if he did, but that was hardly going to stop the man. And most people weren’t going to believe him… but there were plenty of people who’d happily take it as an excuse to start meddling.

Besides, the last thing they needed was stories about horror movie monsters lodged in people’s heads before they even went public about Wei Wuxian.

Lan Qiren waved a hand dismissively. “He signed an NDA…”

“He signed quite a few documents about procedures, acceptable equipment and de-escalation techniques, too,” Nie Mingjue said dryly. “And yet here we are.”

Lan Qiren’s scowl deepened, but at least he granted the point. “Then we have the officers involved sign them. Surely this isn’t the first sensitive case they’ve handled.”

Sensitive nothing. Try explosive, Nie Mingjue snorted, although he carefully kept it in the privacy of his own head. Police detectives were usually good, but there was keeping quiet about live weapons on campus – and he wasn’t sure he wanted that hushed, even considering as much trouble as it would bring down on their heads – and then there was Yiling Laozu is alive.

It wouldn’t be enough to keep watch against someone out to grab their whistle-blowing fifteen minutes of fame. All it would take was one person whose mind was so blown that it disengaged their brain-to-texting filter.

But if Lan Qiren thought that signing an NDA would be enough to keep gossip from spreading, Nie Mingjue doubted the man would consider twitchy texting thumbs to be a genuine concern. So. “You might be able to convince them to keep the investigation under wraps—” Absent any officers in the pockets of crime lords or politicians or nosy reporters. “—but just the existence of a hush-hush investigation is going to draw attention.”

Secrets only stayed that way so long as no one realized there was a secret being kept, after all.

Nie Mingjue looked at Lan Qiren. “This is going to get out eventually,” he admitted bluntly. “The best I can do is buy time for you to get ready for it. Have you looked into finding a PR manager yet?”

Lan Qiren bristled. “Public relations!” he huffed. “We are doing scientific research here, not engaging in some kind of political circus!”

Nie Mingjue drew in a deep breath and reminded himself that they’d been through this before. Lan Qiren had seen no point in arranging extra security for the Yiling Laozu project in the first place; he’d insisted that it was “just” scientific research – as if information wasn’t the most valuable currency in the world. He’d only changed his tune when someone had managed to actually break into the lab, injuring Meng Yao when he’d gone to investigate and very nearly breaching the vault where Yiling Laozu was stored.

And if he was going to be honest, that incident was part of why Nie Mingjue was wary about handing the issue of Su Minshan over to the police. He’d done that with that first break-in… and gotten nothing but radio silence since. Not even a “we are investigating” or “we haven’t found any leads.”

Given that he knew that certain crime rings actively targeted antiquities? Including human remains? That was deeply worrying.

(And contemplating that close call now, when he knew Wei Wuxian had been alive in the ice all along? Brrr. Pun not intended.)

As for now… “This is already political,” he said bluntly. “It was political the moment people decided they cared about what happened to Yiling Laozu, long before the university ever got involved.” He paused, pointedly. “And as your security head, I need to warn you that it’s possible the politics may be getting ugly. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that a trigger-happy guy like Su Minshan somehow managed to get his hands on live ammunition.”

Lan Qiren stared at him.

“A crowd of protesters, most of whom are young, and a jumpy guard carrying live ammunition?” Nie Mingjue shook his head. “That’s a tragedy waiting to happen, Director. More than that, it would be a scandal. All of it tied to a highly controversial research project.” There were any number of parties that would drool over the chance that would represent. Which meant there could well be someone out there with the means and the motive to make it happen.

He didn’t know that was the case. But he trusted his gut.

Lan Qiren huffed impatiently. “Those ridiculous protestors again. Such behavior is pointless and benefits no one!”

Oh, Nie Mingjue could think of a few people who very much stood to benefit, especially after that attempted break-in.

Not to mention the fact that the Party leadership historically took a very dim view on any source of mass agitation. Especially when it came to questioning official decisions. He wasn’t certain how he felt about the fact that the government had yet to crack down on the protestors… but either way, it wasn’t a good sign.

But he also knew when a conversation had hit a brick wall. To Lan Qiren, politics and public opinion had no place in Science… and therefore warranted no consideration. Argh.

Well. He’d said his piece. Maybe it would sink in over time, maybe not. For now… “Pointless or not, it has my people spread thin.” Especially given his concerns that Su Minshan hadn’t been working alone. He didn’t have much choice except to vet each of them all over again, and that was going to take time. “I don’t have many I can spare to keep watch at the lab right now…”

Lan Qiren pursed his lips. “There is no reason to have a guard standing there at all,” he said dourly. “The project team is made up of responsible and conscientious scholars, and your assumption that their behavior must be policed is insulting.”

Now it was Nie Mingjue’s turn to stare. “Does that behavior include actively harassing my people to try to get into an area that you yourself declared to be off-limits until further notice?”

Lan Qiren scowled. “I was quite clear that concerns and suggestions regarding physical access must go through Xichen, as project manager.”

Well, that explained a few things. All too many people would hear that as “you can break the rules if your justification is good enough.” No wonder Lan Xichen was under siege.

He cleared his throat. “Sir, it might help if you…” he started – then stopped short.

His phone was buzzing.

Lan Qiren scowled, clearly about to scold him about proper phone etiquette. Nie Mingjue ignored him and grabbed the device, heart sinking. Because he had set his phone to meeting mode. Which meant he should only get a notification if it was a priority message—

From Meng Yao. Who was on lab watch.

Swearing mentally, Nie Mingjue opened the message. Stared.

Then he was on his feet. “Director, come with me,” he said grimly. “We have a crisis to deal with, and it needs to be dealt with now.”

And it was damn well time the man stopped burying his head in the sand and directed!

Lan Qiren actually spluttered, face going beet red with offended fury. Which, he was just going to have to deal, because—

“Ugh, what’s wrong with this thing?! How can it be stuck?” A loud clunk, as if something metallic had been slammed against the table in the front hallway. “…still stuck? Tch. Fine. Who cares, this is sick-awesome anyway! Wait ‘til I show the guys, they’re gonna be so jealous they puke…”

That was the thing about being a big, burly guy: no one ever expected him to be fast.

Not that Jin Zixun was actually looking. He was so busy trying to yank the sword out of its sheath that he didn’t realize someone was blocking the door until he walked straight into Nie Mingjue’s chest and bounced.

He didn’t actually fall on his ass, although he staggered several steps back. Shame.

Then again, it wasn’t like Nie Mingjue actually needed any extra height to stare down at him like a portent of doom. “There had better be a damn good explanation for this.”

To his credit, Jin Zixun did flinch for a moment. Then, because he had the common sense of a spoiled yappy dog trying to exert dominance over a tiger, he stuck his chest out and strode forward again. “Get out of my way!”

Arms still crossed, Nie Mingjue didn’t budge. Seriously, did Jin Zixun expect to physically intimidate him? That yappy dog comparison was feeling more apt every moment.

Instead, he just looked pointedly at the sword Jin Zixun was brandishing in one hand, still in its sheath, and the overstuffed bag on his other arm, dark fabric dangling from the opening and straining the thin white plastic to near bursting. Hell, it had already broken in one corner, the dark end of that flute Lan Wangji was so impressed with poking out like a defiant middle finger, and from the way the hole had already stretched itself, the structural integrity of that bag was not long for this world. “Not until you explain what you’re doing with things you have no business touching.”

Jin Zixun sneered. “Yeah, that’s what you think—”

“Jin Zixun!” Professor Yao hurried down the hallway, puffing with fury, a wide-eyed Lan Xichen trailing behind him. “What are you doing?” he spluttered. “Those are to go directly to my office! They are priceless artifacts, treat them with respect!”

…Oh, I don’t like where this is going.

Jin Zixun scoffed, turning to the professor and coincidentally taking a step back from Nie Mingjue. “Priceless artifact? What’s priceless about this?!” he demanded, waving the sheathed sword in the air. “The stupid thing is stuck!”

“It is also not yours to take.”

Nie Mingjue raised his eyebrows slightly as Lan Wangji stalked forward, mildly impressed. He didn’t often encounter a civilian who wasn’t ex-military who could pull off the aura of focused fury that the cool kids called killing intent. Not to mention that he was pretty sure that the ambient temperature had just dropped a few degrees.

Obviously recognizing the temper of the room, Lan Xichen quickly stepped forward, hands raised in appeal. “Everyone – please, let’s calm down. Apparently there’s been a bit of miscommunication.”

Miscommunication. Bracing himself, Nie Mingjue looked at the man who’d slipped in quietly behind Lan Wangji. “Meng Yao. You were on door duty.” Technically he still was, but this was obviously something they needed to sort out now. He’d just have to pray that there wasn’t anyone lurking in the shadows to take advantage of the chaos… which wasn’t easy, given everything he’d just been discussing with Lan Qiren. Dammit, this was a complication they did not need!

Meng Yao hesitated, biting his lip as his eyes darted back and forth between the tense and angry faces gathered in the hallway: Lan Qiren’s stormcloud glower in the doorway of the meeting room, Nie Mingjue and Jin Zixun facing off by the door to outside, Professor Yao’s apoplectic blustering and Lan Xichen’s tired resignation, and Lan Wangji’s flat stare that somehow managed to radiate the sense that the man was very much inclined to kill something.

Meng Yao swallowed and turned to answer Nie Mingjue, eyes skittering down to the floor. “I… He had written clearance, sir.”

“What.”

And that was Wen Qing, heels sharp on the tiled floor as she stalked down the hallway herself – either Lan Wangji or Meng Yao must have alerted her to what was going on.

“And how,” she asked icily, “did he get that?”

Lan Xichen sighed and stepped forward, smiling. “I gave it to him, of course.”

Blast. I didn’t want to be right!

Lan Xichen shook his head. “Doctor Wen, Professor Yao’s responsibility is to catalogue the peripheral artifacts, not dealing with Yiling Laozu himself. That must be done before any other research can proceed. It is entirely unreasonable to demand that he delay his work when it requires no contact! I recognize your concerns, of course, but as project manager my job is to ensure that everyone can conduct their research efficiently and effectively. This really is the most reasonable solution.”

“Reasonable.” Wen Qing’s incredulous stare belied her flat tone. “You consider giving Jin Zixun permission to breach quarantine and steal Wei Wuxian’s personal belongings as a reasonable solution?”

Lan Xichen frowned at her. “Doctor Qing, I acknowledge that Jin Zixun overstepped. However, that is no justification for engaging in divisive hyperbole…”

“So there you have it!” Jin Zixun snapped, and whirled to gesture contemptuously at Nie Mingjue. “Now tell this oaf—!”

Metal rasped on metal as the sword flew free of its sheath. Reflexively, Nie Mingjue raised a hand to block and hopefully catch the hilt, mentally swearing; all the gesticulating must have finally knocked loose whatever latch or catch that had locked it in place—

Except then the blade snapped around, striking the sheath out of Jin Zixun’s hand. And stopped, hovering in midair, sharp point a mere centimeter from the man’s throat.

In the dead silence that fell around them, Nie Mingjue blinked at the sword, gleaming in the air in a way that had nothing to do with the hallway lights.

Huh. Guess I win that bet.

“That,” Wen Qing said finally, “appears to be a rather definitive permission not granted, Professors.” Her eyes were huge in a shock-pale face as she stared at the floating sword, but her voice was unyielding, frost-edged iron.

Her words shattered the shocked silence that had frozen everyone in place. With only a subtle shift of his shoulders to betray his own stunned reaction, Lan Wangji stepped forward, gold eyes fixed on Jin Zixun like a hawk staring at a particularly irritating mouse. “Those items were not yours to take,” he said. “Return them. Immediately.”

“Ah… I… Uh… Fine! Who wants them anyway! Take them take them take them!”

Jin Zixun flung the bag at Nie Mingjue and bolted – although he didn’t get far, Meng Yao catching him by the collar before he could flee down the hallway. Nie Mingjue ignored him for the moment, desperately trying to keep the bag’s contents from scattering everywhere as the overstressed plastic finally tore. Somehow, he pulled it off – although only a lucky catch with one pinky on the red tassel kept the dizi from hitting the floor.

“What are you doing!” Professor Yao demanded, hands twitching in the air. “You cannot just fling valuable artifacts about! Now…” He stopped short, eyes bugging out, as Nie Mingjue passed the jumbled mess over to Lan Wangji. “What are you doing?!” he squawked again, higher-pitched this time.

“Making sure these get returned to the person who owns them,” Nie Mingjue replied curtly.

“But you can’t just—!” Professor Yao’s words broke off suddenly, his eyes darting to the sword still hovering in the air. Now that Jin Zixun had backed away, the sword had straightened to a vertical line, point towards the floor, and Nie Mingjue was pretty sure that if it was possible for a sword to radiate innocence, that was exactly what it was doing. Professor Yao darted a wide-eyed look at it, then turned a desperate look at Lan Xichen.

Lan Xichen’s mouth opened and closed slowly as he blinked looking back and forth between the floating sword and Lan Wangji’s set, hard expression. “I… well, under the circumstances…” he said slowly, sounding honestly uncertain what he should be saying.

“They go back to Wei Wuxian,” Wen Qing said briskly. “And I’m calling a meeting tomorrow morning. All project staff. There are apparently some things that we need to clarify. Until then…” Her eyes swept the gathering. “Everyone except for me, Nie Mingjue, and Lan Wangji, please leave the building.”

That, it seemed, was finally enough to jar Lan Qiren from his stunned silence. “Doctor Wen!” he thundered, face purpling. “You don’t have the authority—!”

And that was the crux of this whole mess, wasn’t it? Authority. Who had it, who didn’t, and who thought they did.

Wen Qing was right. They needed to sort this out in front of everyone. Or they’d just end up back in this loop of people filtering facts to match their own convenience.

In the meantime…

Nie Mingjue cleared his throat. “As head of security,” he said, warningly mild, “I do. Everyone, out.”

Lan Wangji was furious.

Furious, and deeply, bitterly disappointed.

Deliberately calming and controlling his breathing, he ignored Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue chivvying the still-protesting researchers out of the building, assisted by Meng Yao’s soothing assurances smoothing ruffled feathers somewhat, and set Wei Wuxian’s belongings down on the table to sort out. Luckily, nothing appeared to have been damaged or lost – although they would need Wei Wuxian to verify that, given the hole in the bag. The bag itself was useless at this point, so he discarded it and set about folding the robes properly, before pulling off his lab coat to wrap everything up in an impromptu package. Only then did he look up, to see that the hallway had been cleared of everyone but himself, Wen Qing, Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao, who was standing hesitantly by the door.

“Should I…?” he asked hesitantly. “I know Doctor Wen said everyone, but…”

“Take the front door post until we get back; I suspect we might have someone try to sneak back in.” Nie Mingjue grimaced. “A tiny blessing: Jin Zixun isn’t going to want to admit to actually wetting himself over this, not even to himself. So he’s not going to take a rampage of grievances to his uncle… yet. But you can bet there’s going to be trouble from that direction sooner rather than later.”

Meng Yao winced. “I know I should have turned him away. Or at least called on you or Doctor Wen. But he had signed permission from Professor Lan, and…”

“And he’s the project manager – not to mention you’re friends,” Nie Mingjue nodded. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault he did an end-run like that, and you shouldn’t have been caught in the middle.”

Personally, Lan Wangji thought that was overly generous, given that Meng Yao had had one job and ended up letting Jin Zixun, of all people, into the lab exactly when Wei Wuxian had been distracted, vulnerable, and trusting them to protect his space and privacy! But Meng Yao wasn’t his subordinate.

“That said,” Nie Mingjue continued, “this whole situation is a cluster…” He hesitated. Glanced at Lan Wangji and Wen Qing. Coughed. “A mess,” he corrected himself. “So right now, I need to invoke need to know until the three of us have figured out the best way to tackle it.”

Meng Yao winced, but nodded, opening the door and heading for the security desk in the atrium.

Once he was gone, Nie Mingjue sighed. And then glanced at the sword still hovering demurely in the air nearby, as if it wasn’t breaking the laws of physics, and several brains, in the process. “So. Any ideas about what to do about that?”

“Mn.” Leaving the coat-wrapped bundle on the table for the moment, Lan Wangji bent down and picked up the scabbard from where it had fallen when Jin Zixun dropped it. For a moment, his fingers froze a few millimeters above polished wood, as if his own body was objecting to the sheer temerity of touching it. Then, firmly, he picked it up and straightened, holding the opening of the sheath towards the sword in a silent invitation.

The sword swept up and around, aligning the blade and sliding home with such a smooth motion that Lan Wangji didn’t even think to flinch until it had already settled into place, the weight of wood and steel solid in his hand.

Startlingly solid, in fact. Intellectually, of course, he was well aware that swords were heavy, that – not unlike a gymnast lifting their own body – it took a substantial amount of strength to wield one quickly and lightly.

It was just… disconcerting to be reminded of that fact by a sword that had just been moving of its own accord.

Nie Mingjue and Wen Qing both visibly relaxed as Lan Wangji lowered the now-sheathed sword and set it atop the bundle of other stolen items. “Right,” Nie Mingjue said, and shook his head. “You two, go and take those back, and I’ll meet you…”

“Come with us,” Lan Wangji said.

Nie Mingjue hesitated. “I haven’t been quarantined these last few days…”

“No, he’s right,” Wen Qing said when Nie Mingjue hesitated. “This whole mess is bad enough from our end, but for Wei Wuxian, this has been a massive breach of his trust. You shouldn’t stay long, we still want to minimize exposure… but we need to show him that you’re on his side here.”

“…Ah,” Nie Mingjue said, nodding. “And since we have no idea how much he actually perceived through that…” He tilted his head towards the sword. “Better to make it clear.”

Lan Wangji frowned slightly. There was an odd weight to their words, as if Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue were having a second, unspoken conversation that he couldn’t quite follow.

Whatever that conversation was, they seemed to have come to some kind of accord through the spaces between their words. With a gusty sigh, Nie Mingjue waved in the direction of the hallway. “Well. Shall we?”

Lan Wangji picked up the bundle of Wei Wuxian’s belongings and led them silently past the elevator and towards the stairs. They climbed in silence, each caught in their own thoughts.

There was… a great deal to process about the events of the past… fifteen minutes? Twenty? If even that.

Astonishing, how quickly the world could change.

“Hey.” Nie Mingjue’s voice was uncharacteristically quiet. When Lan Wangji glanced to the side, he saw the man looking at him steadily. “You okay?” he asked. “I meant what I said back there – this is a mess. And for you it’s a family mess, on top of everything else.”

Pressing his lips together, Lan Wangji didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, in honesty.

Beyond profoundly shaken. At some level, he was beginning to realize, he’d believed that the situation was stable. For all Wen Qing’s and Nie Mingjue’s concerns, he’d been under the impression that everything was in order. Under control.

It was… deeply disturbing to realize how much that was not the case. It felt like an ugly fire burning just under his skin, a hard cold weight under his ribs, this desperate urge to do something, with no idea what he should or even could do.

The door to the lab was still closed. Lan Wangji gave himself a moment, then knocked briskly.

For a long second, there was no response, and his mind began racing. Had Wei Wuxian decided to leave and take his chances with the unknown world beyond the lab, rather than remain in a space that he now knew was not truly safe? He would not be unjustified; he already knew there were things that Lan Wangji was not telling him…

Finally, however: “Come in.”

Wei Wuxian’s voice was cool. Dangerously neutral.

And, come in. Not the who’s there that had always greeted Lan Wangji before. That felt… deliberate. Like a point was being made. The question was, what point?

…Then again, was it so hard to guess? After all, Wei Wuxian knew, now, that his permission or lack thereof was no barrier to entry. Or rather, that those who didn’t care wouldn’t have bothered to knock in the first place. And he wasn’t inclined to humor anyone by pretending otherwise right now.

Wincing internally, Lan Wangji unlocked the door. Opened it. And stopped short.

Wei Wuxian cut a striking figure, standing exactly where he’d been when Lan Wangji had left, arms crossed over his chest and feet set slightly wide, as if prepared to move at any moment. Incongruously, the lack of that enveloping grey robe actually made him seem taller, the deep, vivid red of the shirt and dark lines of the coat accentuating broad shoulders and long legs – even if the bare feet made for an odd counterpoint.

Not that Lan Wangji was looking at his feet. Not when his gaze was arrested by eyes that were no longer laughing silver, but steel-bright and sharp as the blade of the sheathed sword in Lan Wangji’s hand.

The eyes of someone fully capable of being very dangerous.

It should have been off-putting, to say the least. And yet… it wasn’t. He felt more as if a veil had been momentarily pulled back from his eyes, allowing him to finally see something that had always been there, just never at the forefront. A glimpse of the reality of a man who had lived in a time when stakes were higher, when some lines in the sand would only hold if one was prepared to defend them by any means necessary.

It wasn’t a mask stripped away. More like a shift in angle to reveal a new facet of a finely cut gemstone.

Taking a deep breath, Lan Wangji stepped inside, and then bent in a deep bow. Behind him, he heard Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue doing the same a half-beat behind, obviously taking their cue from him. “I’m sorry,” he said in Middle Chinese, carefully shaping the unfamiliar tones. He wanted to get it, right, to show his sincerity…

And because, after everything that had happened today, it suddenly felt important to draw a line somewhere. To clarify that Wei Wuxian wouldn’t be the only one asked to adjust and accommodate. Which, he was ashamed to realize, had been almost exclusively the dynamic up to this point.

They had to do better. He had to do better.

And to start… he did not look up, even as the silence stretched longer and longer and he could feel Wei Wuxian’s thoughtful gaze on him.

Finally, the silence was broken by a bright laugh, as Wei Wuxian took the coat-wrapped bundle and his sword from Lan Wangji’s hands. “Ah… You are forgiven…?” Wei Wuxian said carefully.

Nie Mingjue huffed slightly. “Might want to teach him the simpler version,” he murmured. “That’s just weird.”

“…Mn.” At the time, going through the set phrases most common in conversation, it had seemed logical and proper to begin with the most grammatically correct and polite version… but hearing the words said aloud, he had to admit that the man had a point.

Straightening, Lan Wangji looked at Wei Wuxian, and was met with a crooked smile, the man finally unfolding his arms. Not his usual sunny grin… but it felt honest and unreserved, even so. There was still a hint of that steel sharpness in his eyes, but it seemed less directed at them than it was… simply no longer hidden away.

Wei Wuxian set the bundle on the counter and unwrapped it. His face immediately brightened when he saw his boots on the pile, and then turned rueful as he looked down and wiggled his toes, sending little ripples across the thin sheet of water still on the floor.

Ah. In the wake of everything, Lan Wangji had completely forgotten about that.

“I will get the mop,” he said.

Wen Qing nodded. “Do that. And when you’re done…” She sighed. “Nie Mingjue and I will be in the observation room. Come find us when you’ve finished cleaning up.” She raised a hand before he could object. “I know you need to explain this mess to him, and I promise we won’t take long. But the three of us need to talk.”

Ominous. But not unexpected.

Cleaning the lab of the remnants of the bath took slightly longer than he’d intended, largely because – as ever – Wei Wuxian was determined to poke at everything. He seemed to find the panel meant to squeeze excess water from the mop to be particularly entertaining, moving the mechanism back and forth to watch how it worked.

It was… somewhat disconcerting, juxtaposing that familiar, cheerful inquisitiveness with steely eyes and a floating sword hovering at Jin Zixun’s throat. And yet… it was hardly as if he’d been unaware, intellectually at the least, that Wei Wuxian was no stranger to violence and danger. It was simply that now he understood the extent to which Wei Wuxian chose to be the laughing, playful, curious man that he was. And that added insight…

Admirable enough to retain that cheerful resilience from a place of innocence. But to know some of the darkest parts of humanity, and choose that bright outlook despite it? That reflected a level of strength he found hard to even imagine.

Eventually, however, all that was left was a shine on the floor that was already evaporating away in the dry air of the lab. Packing up mops and bucket to return to their proper place, Lan Wangji hesitated.

Wei Wuxian looked at him knowingly. “In the next room?” he asked in an echo of Lan Wangji’s usual phrasing, tilting his head towards the covered observation window.

…Of course. Hadn’t he just been reflecting that Wei Wuxian was no stranger to conflicts? There was no way he was unaware that the events of this morning had been unplanned and unwelcome – and in need of a response that would require planning.

So Lan Wangji nodded. “I will return soon,” he promised.

Sitting on one of the stools to pull his boots back on now that the floor was dry again, Wei Wuxian chuckled and waved him on.

That nonchalance was a stark contrast to the atmosphere Lan Wangji found in the observation room. Wen Qing was pacing briskly back and forth in the space between the desks, while Nie Mingjue watched her from where he was leaning against the wall, eyes thoughtful.

As soon as the door closed, Wen Qing turned sharply to face him. “We need to get Wei Wuxian out of here,” she said flatly.

The words were like an electric jolt down the length of his spine… and yet, Lan Wangji felt as though the exact same thought had been lurking in the back of his mind ever since the confrontation at the door, waiting only to be articulated. Nor did Nie Mingjue seem the least bit surprised, either.

But… “Doctor?”

Wen Qing’s nostrils flared as she began pacing again, heels muffled on the hard industrial carpeting. “You heard what Lan Xichen said down there,” she said. “Jin Zixun breaching quarantine, violating Wei Wuxian’s privacy and potentially endangering his life… was just an overstep. Taking Wei Wuxian’s only earthly belongings without his consent wasn’t theft, it was the most reasonable solution.” Exhaling sharply, she stopped, deliberately shook out taut shoulders, and turned to face them again. “It’s not conscious on their part, I think. And that’s half the problem. So long as Wei Wuxian is in that lab, in their minds he’s a research subject first and foremost. Not a person.”

“And since a lot of people have a vested interest in keeping it that way, they’re just going to keep escalating this, as long as he’s in easy reach,” Nie Mingjue rumbled. “Which could get real messy, real fast. You saw the look on his face in there. He’s played nice with us so far, in good faith. But the next person to cross a line is likely to regret it.” He paused. “And I’m guessing a cultivator has some pretty creative options when it comes to making people regret their life choices.”

Wen Qing choked.

Nie Mingjue chuckled wryly at the stunned look on her face. “Not sure why you’re so surprised, Doctor. He caught a bullet bare-handed. When he’d never seen a gun before in his life, no less. It’s been pretty obvious from the beginning that he’s definitely capable of beyond human feats. Though I admit, the flying sword? I wasn’t sure about that one until it happened.” He cast a curious glance at Lan Wangji. “Bit surprised you didn’t spot it, Professor. Isn’t cultivator lore kind of your thing?”

Lan Wangji stared at him, stunned.

Because… yes, of course he’d wanted cultivation to be real; he was no more immune to wistful wish-fulfillment fantasies than anyone else, and xianxia novels and movies had long been a secret, guilty pleasure – and not just because they generally featured athletic and attractive men of usually admirable morals in aesthetically pleasing costumes, although he was honest enough to admit that certainly didn’t do anything to reduce the appeal.

But he’d always been careful to draw a strict line between fantasy and fact, long before his own academic research had driven home how different history and even historic folklore were from thrilling fiction that might have been inspired by them but remained fundamentally rooted in the modern world. The folklore was very much something separate and independent, more a lens by which to understand the people of the past than some search for hidden esoteric secrets. A point he’d tried to make ad nauseum ever since that first fight after his uncle had discovered the second degree he was pursuing.

Oh, he would have thrilled to discover some deep esoteric secret that proved the fantasies true – who would not? But to be honest, he’d been content with the separation of the two. One was his work, beloved and fascinating. The other he could save for play, when he wanted to immerse himself in a world of (attractive and athletic) men who sought to overcome the limitations of the mortal world.

So content that he hadn’t even noticed the reality in front of him.

Suddenly dizzy, Lan Wangji rested a hand on the back of a nearby chair, trying to ground himself amidst the whirl of realization… and then his grip tightened as that thought led inexorably to another. “He drew international attention before, when he was simply a curiosity in the ice.” That he had survived the ice would have been earth-shaking enough. But this…

“It’s going to be a feeding frenzy, when word gets out,” Wen Qing agreed, and grimaced. “Or worse. Half the project still has their heads buried in the sand over the fact that he’s alive. Try to make them wrap their heads around floating swords…”

“Half of them are going to try to take him apart just to figure out how it works.” Nie Mingjue finished. “And the other half…” He grimaced. “The project has a lot of powerful people who are used to thinking that they know everything important to know about the world. And people like that really don’t like finding out they’re wrong. Some of them would try to tear him apart for defying the way they think the world should work, and just justify it in the name of science.” His lip curled in dry amusement. “Although I doubt Wei Wuxian would let them get that far.”

Lan Wangji looked at him. “Let them,” he echoed.

Nie Mingjue’s smirk widened. “You saw his face when we walked in. Did you see his hands?”

“…No,” Wen Qing said slowly, frowning. “His arms were crossed.”

“Exactly.” Nie Mingjue raised his eyebrows. “Something about the position looked odd to me. So I tried it. And if I’m right?” Slowly, deliberately, he unfolded his own arms.

His right hand, which had mostly been hidden behind his elbow, was positioned in a classic meditative mudra, first two fingers held straight while the others curled close to his palm, thumb folded over them.

“A seal gesture?” Lan Wangji murmured. The texts he’d studied occasionally mentioned them, but never in detail. “To control the sword?”

“Could be,” Nie Mingjue said. “But more importantly, he was hiding it.” He looked at them, pointedly. “He’s already figured out, we don’t actually know what he’s capable of. And he’s taking steps to keep it that way.”

Oh. Oh. “Lingfu,” Lan Wangji breathed. The intricate symbols. The different combinations of writing tools and paper. Careful. Methodical. Systematic.

As if he’d been testing the materials available to him, based on some unknown criteria.

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure he’s got actual talismans literally up his sleeves. Just in case.” Nie Mingjue looked at them. “Personally, I approve. He’s thinking about how to protect himself. But given he’s currently caught in a corner and short on options? I’d really rather he not feel like he has to use those options. Some of them might be explosive.”

Wen Qing closed her mouth, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “Which brings us back to the original point,” she agreed, visibly deciding to shelve the cultivator revelation for a later that would likely involve a glass or two of wine. “We need to get him out of here and out of reach, at the very least until the worst of the hysteria is past and I can hammer in a few unwanted truths.” Her eyes narrowed. “More than that… I want him in a space he can control. Where his permission is actually necessary rather than an easily overlooked courtesy.”

Lan Wangji nodded, not surprised that she’d also noticed that nuance.

“Of course, that begs the question,” Nie Mingjue said. “Got any ideas about where he’d go? Last I checked, we were pretty short on options.”

“We were short on options a week ago, when he first woke up,” Wen Qing corrected. “But circumstances have changed.” She turned. “Lan Wangji. You have a guest room.”

Lan Wangji blinked once. Yes, he did, and Wen Qing was well aware of that, since they’d planned for Wen Yuan to stay there once he’d completed the initial isolation phase of quarantine…

Wait. Did she mean…

“Huh.” Nie Mingjue tilted his head slightly. “That’s a pretty tidy solution, actually.”

He shrugged when Lan Wangji turned to look at him. “Our two goals are to keep the guy quarantined, and to put him somewhere that’s not so easy to trespass on, right? That house of yours fits pretty neatly.” He grinned. “If nothing else, I can’t see Jin Zixun charging into your house, no matter how entitled he’s feeling. And you’d have indisputable power to kick him and anyone else out. Heck, most of them wouldn’t know where to find it in the first place, since it doesn’t actually have a listed address.”

No, it didn’t, since it was part of the historic complex and only accessible by foot. Which was one of the reasons Lan Wangji had been glad to live there, even if it meant regular trips to the campus post office.

Wen Qing nodded. “It’s also isolated and quiet. He can stay quarantined without being locked up in one room. And you can’t tell me that the language lessons wouldn’t be easier with an actual living context to base them on.”

Lan Wangji studied Wen Qing for a long moment. “You have thought about this.”

She nodded. “It wasn’t feasible at the beginning. There were too many variables. I’d planned to bring it up once people calmed down and accepted that this was going to take a while, but…” She grimaced.

Lan Wangji nodded slowly. Under normal circumstances, he would be disinclined to accept a roommate; he preferred his space. But he was not wholly against the concept. And Wen Qing was correct that Wei Wuxian’s language skills would progress more rapidly in a genuinely immersive environment.

And… he liked Wei Wuxian. More importantly, Wei Wuxian seemed to like him, although the situation meant that could easily be a matter of necessity as opposed to genuine preference. But they could share space comfortably, at least. Which was likely one of the variables that Wen Qing had mentioned.

However. “I am not a physician,” he reminded her. After all, one of the primary reasons Wei Wuxian had remained in the lab was the need to closely monitor his health.

But Wen Qing shrugged. “I’m fairly certain we’re past the point of needing to worry about a sudden acute crisis, which was my primary worry before. My biggest concern now is making sure he doesn’t get sick, which is one of the reasons I was thinking about this in the first place.”

“Really?” Nie Mingjue asked. “Because… no offense, Doctor, but it seems like a pretty risky move from that standpoint.”

“Really.” Without waiting for a response, Wen Qing began pacing again. “I’m worried about diseases. Which means I need to keep his immune system strong, first and foremost.”

She turned sharply to face them again. “Do you know what depresses the immune system?” She began listing points off on her fingers. “Lack of sunlight depresses the immune system. Lack of fresh air depresses the immune system. Lack of exercise depresses the immune system. Confinement depresses the immune system, not having control over your surroundings depresses the immune system, isolation depresses the immune system, do I need to keep going?”

Lan Wangji’s breath caught. Yes, he’d been less than comfortable with the situation as it stood. But his focus had been on the inherent discomfort, the power imbalance, the unfairness of it. He hadn’t considered that it might be actively detrimental to Wei Wuxian’s health.

In which case, his choice was obvious. Especially since he had no particular aversion or concerns. Save one. “Where will Wen Yuan stay, then?”

Wen Qing hesitated. “Would you still have room for him?”

Possibly. It would likely require reorganizing his office space. And some shopping; he’d never had need of an air mattress before. But doable. “You think his presence will be important?”

“It’ll make the language learning easier,” Nie Mingjue said. “And from a security standpoint, better to minimize the amount of back-and-forth.” He looked at Wen Qing.

Her shoulders dropped slightly. “I think it could be crucial,” she said quietly. “Because another thing that depresses the immune system? Is grief.” She closed her eyes. “Everything else, we can avoid or ameliorate. But… eventually, he is going to learn that everyone he ever knew – family, friends, even enemies – is dead. Their children are dead. Their great-great-grandchildren are dead, and have been dead so long it would take a miracle to even find their names, let alone their graves. And there’s nothing we can do to cushion that. His entire world is gone, and there’s no going back to it.”

Nie Mingjue exhaled heavily. “That’s… yeah. That’d be a lot.”

Lan Wangji nodded slowly. It was not as if he was unaware of the magnitude of what Wei Wuxian had lost; it was why he’d delayed speaking of the matter, after all. But hearing it spelled out so starkly… “You believe Wen Yuan’s presence would be beneficial?”

“Kids are good for that sort of thing,” Nie Mingjue pointed out. “Get you thinking about the present, rather than the past, if only to keep them from running out in front of something.”

“And if nothing else, the more support network he can get before the moment comes, the better,” Wen Qing said briskly.

Both true. Which only left one complication. “I do not know Uncle can be convinced to approve such a transfer.” On so many levels.

Wen Qing smiled grimly. “As it happens, I don’t plan to ask permission. Or forgiveness.”

Startled, Lan Wangji looked at Nie Mingjue.

The man nodded. “I’m the head of security. The safety of the project members is my responsibility, and that includes Wei Wuxian. And since it’s the project itself that’s putting him in danger right now…” He shrugged, and then leveled a serious look at Lan Wangji. “You’re not obligated to help. I know this is a pretty extreme step.”

It was. And terrifying. But. “It is the right step.”

Wen Qing released a slightly shaky breath. “All right, then. This is what we were planning…”

OMAKE:

Lan Xichen: Wen Yuan gets access to Yiling Laozu, and not our distinguished researchers?
Wen Qing: Unlike your distinguished researchers, Wen Yuan actually remembers that Yiling Laozu is not his name.
(A line I desperately wanted to get into the fic itself, but there was never really a good opportunity. Darn it.)

Wei Wuxian: (Looks at modern clothes) “I mean, normally I’m happy to own my own shamelessness, but…”

NOTES:

Fun thought! At Mount Dafan, Lan Wangji sends Bichen across the mountain destroying several hundred nets… which means Bichen was guided somehow. So either you can go with “spiritual swords have a consciousness and can act independently” (which seems like a step beyond simply sealing, which in MDZS is something that only Suibian is known to have done among the cast, and in an earlier conversation Wei Wuxian comments is the sort of legendary achievement that only a cultivator in their eighties might accomplish), or cultivators can project their own consciousness into a sword to guide it even at some distance – implying they can “see” through their sword. Which honestly sounds like an awesome tactic to use when scouting a potentially dangerous situation…

Most of my information about ancient Chinese vaccinations comes from here: https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3407399/

There are conflicting accounts, but thus far this is the source with the best discussion of sources I’ve found.

Yes, Wen Yuan absolutely wants to make sure Mo Xuanyu gets to find out who exactly he was helping with his cosplay fashion advice. Preferably with Wen Yuan right there to see the look on his face…

…also, yes, logically it should have taken much longer to get that outfit together than one week, and I should have saved that for a later scene. But Lan Wangji refused to give up a chance to give Wei Wuxian All The Nice Things.

Bath beans: from what I’ve found, historically the pods of the Chinese honey locust tree (Gleditsia sinensis) have been used as detergent in China. It also sounds like they would use perfumes mixed in as well, so I built on that…

Mudra is an Indian term for the ritual hand positions (“seals,” which is a literal translation of mudra) that we often see characters using in anime and xianxia; so far as I can tell, the practice originated with Vedic religions, spread to China along with Buddhism, and then diffused to other traditions… but since they’re a classic cultivation thing, might as well use them!

While the Lan Wangji of this fic copes with it far better (in part because he’s in his thirties and has vastly more life experience, not to mention a far less sheltered and simplistic worldview)… I personally headcanon that part of Lan Wangji’s reaction to Wei Wuxian after the first Burial Mounds stint had in part to do with the fact that, for all he’d cursed Wei Wuxian’s refusal to be serious in Cloud Recesses, he’d never stopped to wonder what a deadly serious Wei Wuxian would be like. He was used to Wei Wuxian using humor to get through even deadly situations, and was not prepared to deal with the fact that Wei Wuxian is terrifying when he’s genuinely angry. And so the new Wei Wuxian surely had to be the fault of the resentful energy, rather than a side of Wei Wuxian Lan Wangji had never seen outside of punching Jin Zixuan. (In fact, the novel expressly shows Wei Wuxian discovering for himself that he can be that coldly, brutally angry… in the immediate aftermath of the attack on Lotus Pier, before the golden core transfer or any attempt to handle resentful energy.)

I cover this in Bitter Plants Bearing Sweet Fruit, but while I’m sure Wei Wuxian’s sleep schedule is intended to convey “party animal” (and fit his Spooky Hero aesthetic), the fact of the matter is that in ancient times, it’s unlikely he’d have that many people to party with, because prior to the industrial revolution and electric lighting, aligning your activity to the sun was a matter of necessity more than preference.  So what does he do when he stays up to the wee hours of the morning?

Personal head canon: that’s his private time. That’s when he can train at his own level without worrying about Madam Yu or setting off Jiang Cheng’s insecurities. That’s when he can meditate without being interrupted by his responsibilities as first disciple. And, yes, time to poke around and explore and get up to mischief.

Not to mention that it’s a much more practical sleep schedule for a lifestyle that includes night hunts than the Lan system.

Speaking of. It’s worth remembering that in the novel, Wei Wuxian’s mischief is, in almost every case, strategic. His “impulsiveness” is always calculated to serve a purpose. He always has a specific goal for the chaos he causes. This includes about 90% of his flirting with Lan Wangji. (And 100% of his flirting with anyone else.) I think people tend to be uncomfortable with it because we’re culturally primed to see it as a negative trait (which may be tied to that annoying “intelligence isn’t heroic” bias), but Wei Wuxian is sly. He’s cunning, he’s tricky, he’s perfectly comfortable manipulating people to bait or lure them into doing what he wants, and he knows darned well that charm is a verb. And uses it if it’s an option (often it isn’t).

All of which goes to say: Wei Wuxian can be gleefully teasing and having a huge amount of fun with it, while also calculating how to fluster Lan Wangji out of the room so he can whistle up some ghosts to interrogate for more information on his situation at the same time. He is talented that way.

And if you’re thinking it’s OOC for Wei Wuxian to wait in one room for a week, a reminder: canon, he kept his head down and out of trouble for days during the Wen indoctrination camp; he was under orders not to draw attention and he followed those orders. He only acted when there was a crisis that demanded action. (Something CQL apparently changed, which I find annoying because it undermines just how much self-control he has and the extent of strategy involved in his “impulsiveness.”) Likewise, he only breaks out of Mo Xuanyu’s room after he’s learned everything he can from the contents, spent hours meditating to familiarize himself with his new body, and has overheard that there are sect cultivators visiting, giving him a prime opportunity to test if public humiliation will be enough to satisfy the terms of the summoning ritual. And then, when that doesn’t work, he wanders around for a bit, and then goes back and meditates some more. So much for the “bad at meditating/doesn’t like to meditate” fanon!

…actually, ironically, I think Wei Wuxian is pretty much the only character we ever actually see meditating…

Empathy requiring an outside party to pull yourself out of it makes for an excellent device at the point in the story where it’s introduced; it raises the stakes of Empathy with A’Qing’s ghost, gives the kids and especially Jin Ling an important role to play, and builds rapport between Wei Wuxian and the kids through trust. It’s also a major plot hole. How would Wei Wuxian have figured it out? I can’t see him doing it during the Sunshot Campaign, so did he only figure it out after hiding out in the Burial Mounds with the Wens? So… my take is, having an assistant to pull you out helps and is definitely a good idea… but it’s actually not strictly necessary.

(Assuming, of course, that he invented the method. It might well be an established cultivation method, although that makes the treatment of his own cultivation as somehow “demonic” even more facepalmy… which could well be the point. The novel only says that every clan has their own technique for communicating with spirits, and that Empathy is Wei Wuxian’s specialty. However, for the purposes of this fic, I’m saying that he created it.)

And given that it’s canon that Wei Wuxian can hear ghosts that others don’t, and can chat them up for information? I really want a story where he accidentally becomes a spymaster because people gossip and a lot of ghosts are fundamentally bored people with no one to talk to…

As for the angry ghost? It’s canon that unless Wei Wuxian has accustomed a fierce corpse to working with him, their response to seeing him is to go eep and lurch in any other direction. As one meta-writer put it (sorry, I’ve lost the link), Wei Wuxian is such a high-level necromancer that he has a perpetual low-grade Turn Undead aura!

…it also makes for an absolutely hilarious mental image.

“Grrr, argh, we are fierce corpses, fear us… Whoableep, that’s Yiling Laozu, play dead!”
“But we’re already dead…?”
“Play deader!”

Which is actually interesting, because a lot of fanworks paint Wei Wuxian as being able to whistle up an army whenever he wants, when in fact he would have had to build up any undead he worked with over time, or be working with dead who already have grudges. Which is probably what made the fight in Nightless City so devastating; given the location, the dead he called up there would likely have been Wen disciples and civilians killed during the siege, and therefore they would have been predisposed to view the other sects as their enemies.

A related aside: I’ve seen some people claim that Wei Wuxian’s cultivation messes with spirits entering the reincarnation cycle. However, outside of the fact that all exorcisms mess with reincarnation if liberation isn’t an option, there is nothing in the novel to support this, and indirect evidence against it. As far as I can tell, those claims are based on more general xianxia tropes about modao, but not only does MXTX have a history of playing fast and loose with said tropes, there’s actually a strong argument to be made that Wei Wuxian’s cultivation is not modao.

No, I’m not kidding. According to someone who can read the original Chinese, the term “modao/demonic cultivation” is used once in the entire novel… in the first chapter, as a title drop, when Wei Wuxian reflects – rather sarcastically – that people called him “Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation.”

Anyone who knows the big twist of the novel knows that that’s a red flag right there!

Outside of that, the only people who call what Wei Wuxian does “demonic” are people who don’t know anything about the path he created. Wei Wuxian, on the other hand, calls it guidao/ghost path. More significantly, Xue Yang calls it guidao – and let’s be real, Xue Yang would be thrilled to call what he does demonic. So if he’s also calling it guidao? I take that as a very significant hint to pay attention to the distinction.

Honestly, I think it’s awesome. The whole point of the story is subverting expectations, so is it really such a shock to find out that the title itself has invisible air quotes on it? After all, from a certain point of view it’s not wrong: the story is about someone who was called the grandmaster of demonic cultivation…

Regarding Lan Xichen…

I think I’m hard on the man in part because in a similar situation, that would be me. I don’t have a lot of social courage, I hate conflict, I cringe at the first hint of anger, I want people to get along. I admire those with the courage to stand their ground; I have doubts about my own ability to do so. (Though I’d like to think that I would try.)

However. Lan Xichen also, canonically, does not have a strong moral compass – he flat out admits to Lan Wangji at one point that he’s never really put much thought into right versus wrong. He also, canonically, is unwilling to stand up to people.

He’s also one of those characters who doesn’t hold up well in a careful reread of the novel.

Lots of digital ink has been spilled about the Yunping Temple Rant, so I won’t delve into that here (although I do have my own take on what I see as a fundamental dishonesty in how he presents the events of Nightless City and after). And people have pointed out the fact that he just laughs off Nie Mingjue taking a third of the prey on Phoenix Mountain when everyone ganged up on Wei Wuxian for doing the exact same thing. As well as his willingness to give lip service to “maybe he had a point” but refusal to actually follow up when no one else agrees.

Instead, consider this: when Jin Guangyao flat-out confirms Wei Wuxian’s accusations that Jin Guangshan is maneuvering to be the next Wen Ruohan, then follows up with the protest of, “But how rude of him to make me say it, especially because it’s true!” Lan Wangji objects to the insinuations against Wei Wuxian – and Lan Xichen shuts him down with that “his heart has changed” line. Which comes across as very strange when you consider that there’s no indication that Lan Xichen has had anything to do with Wei Wuxian since Cloud Recesses, while Lan Wangji’s arguments with Wei Wuxian are famous enough to shape the public perception of him even when he actively sides with Wei Wuxian thirteen years later. Lan Xichen was even encouraging Lan Wangji to go talk to Wei Wuxian at Phoenix Mountain! So why is Lan Xichen acting like he knows Wei Wuxian better than Lan Wangji? Especially when his statement is a complete non sequitur to the point at hand?

Consider this as well: at Phoenix Mountain, Lan Xichen compliments Jin Guangyao for gracefully salvaging the party. Which he pretty much accomplished by throwing Wei Wuxian under the bus. When Lan Xichen was fully aware that Nie Mingjue had done the exact same thing that Wei Wuxian was being excoriated for.

With that in mind? I don’t think Lan Xichen actually believed what he said about Wei Wuxian.* He just didn’t want Lan Wangji’s socially inconvenient honesty to mess things up. So he said whatever would work to smooth things over.

(*: Rather, I don’t think he believed it at the time. But it would be in character and psychologically consistent for him to then be absolutely certain after the fact that what he said was true and justified. Convincing yourself that what’s convenient for you must be true is very much a thing.)

To be fair, I’m of the camp that feels that, at least in the novel, Lan Xichen has no clue that Lan Wangji actually loves Wei Wuxian prior to Nightless City. So he would have seen himself as giving Lan Wangji a graceful out from obligatory Honorable Honesty that just happened to be socially convenient for Lan Xichen’s friend.

In addition: in the situation in this story? Lan Xichen is surrounded by loud, stubborn people – many of whom are far older and better established than he is – he’s not actually involved in working with Wei Wuxian’s care directly, and he’s getting no support from Lan Qiren, who is still in “pretend the problem will just go away” mode.

As for Lan Qiren himself… I honestly think that Lan Qiren’s reported reputation about his teaching skills is meant, in the novel, as our first serious hint that one of the big themes of the novel is that reputation cannot be taken at face value. The man is a terrible teacher, and the novel calls him out on it. He’s also inflexible, hypocritical, and prone to flat-out refusing to acknowledge anything he doesn’t like, even if it’s the truth.

I’m planning on some redemption for him in this fic… but at this point? He’s not only inflexible and in denial, but he lived through the Cultural Revolution. Politics getting involved in academia is a trauma trigger for the guy.

Problem is, even when you have legitimate trauma behind your actions, it doesn’t prevent the damage your actions do…

Chapter Text

It was a beautiful afternoon; the sun was shining bright and clear overhead, pleasant rather than harsh. The warmth radiating up from the sunbaked footpath was a welcome relief from overly air-conditioned labs and offices where all too often the settings were determined by men wearing black woolen suits in high summer. Birds were singing in one of the nearby stands of trees, although she couldn’t see anything beyond a vague sense of flitting motion in the shadows under the leaves.

Wen Qing made herself focus on those little details. Because if she thought about anything else, she might very easily throw up.

This was taking things so much farther than simply being the one drawing a line and saying no.

But she was a doctor, first and foremost. What was the point of swearing an oath to do no harm, if she didn’t act to prevent harm happening right in front of her?

And she’d tried to do things the proper way, going through the right channels. But the problem with the “proper” method was that it assumed, in fact relied on, the assumption that others would respond in kind.

Drawing a line in the sand didn’t do any good when there was someone else blithely inviting people to step over it instead.

At this point, something had to be done, and she intended to do it.

Briskly, she swiped her ID card and stepped through the door, nodding to Meng Yao at the security desk. “Any problems today?”

“Less than I expected, Doctor Wen,” Meng Yao said with a wry smile. “I suppose it helps that the usual suspects are all currently dealing with an existential crisis… and probably getting very drunk.” The smile became a little more crooked. “I also suspect the boss disabled certain ID cards’ access on the door for the duration.” He nodded to her. “He did say I should expect you…?” He let the statement trail away into a question, obviously curious about the change in her routine.

She didn’t even have to feign her flash of temper. “After this morning’s fiasco? Jin Zixun breached the quarantine, and he spends every night and most of his days at parties and bars! Luckily the exposure was brief, but mitigation and preventative treatment is a must after that.”

Which was absolutely and utterly true. Even if, for all practical purposes, the best she could do with regards to mitigation was monitoring for symptoms and vitamin supplements.

Honestly, she probably should have started supplements sooner, especially given that the man was confined indoors. She’d decided against it mostly because without access to a blood test, she couldn’t be sure that intervention wouldn’t harm more than it helped. And blood tests were still not an option.

Not least because a blood test was supposed to be taken when the patient was fasting. She was not going to withhold food from a man who was already slightly underweight without explanation or his explicit agreement, just because she was anxious.

Still, vitamin C, at least, was about as harmless as anyone could ask. Even if she would prefer that he get it in the form of actual food – see aforementioned underweight status – it wouldn’t hurt to put him on a supplement, if they could convince him to take it.

However, when Meng Yao looked at her bag and said, “So you brought your equipment? Do you need help carrying it?” she didn’t bother correcting his assumption, just shook her head.

“It’s not heavy, just a little bulky,” she said. “And you shouldn’t leave your post, even if Mister Nie did change the ID access.” Then she blinked. “Actually, why are you still on duty? Isn’t it Nie Zhonghui’s shift?”

Meng Yao smiled ruefully. “I volunteered to cover while the boss gets him briefed on everything that’s happened. It’s… rather a lot, after all. And…” His face fell. “I still feel like this was my fault.”

Wen Qing huffed. It was his fault, technically. Security officers were Nie Mingjue’s responsibility. Even if Lan Xichen had formally given permission, by proper order he should have notified Nie Mingjue and let him pass the new instructions on to his own people. To say nothing of just handing off permission to Jin Zixun.

Well. Hopefully tomorrow’s meeting would drive a few hard truths home.

“Trust me, your contribution to that mess was minimal,” she said dryly, and then nodded briskly and started down the hallway, not wanting to be drawn any farther into the conversation.

In a way, she felt bad. She understood Nie Mingjue’s reasoning for keeping his own people in the dark about what they were planning; they were definitely moving in a very grey area, legally if not ethically. The last thing they needed was to drag Nie Mingjue’s subordinates in. And on a ruthlessly practical level, given the amount of pressure the security officers were facing, they were definitely better off keeping things on a need-to-know basis. Especially since Meng Yao had caved to social pressure once already.

So instead, he was going to be providing her a cover story of sorts.

She drew in a deep breath but didn’t slow down. From here on out, she was on a soft timer of sorts. Because if too much time passed between when she entered and when they saw her leave, that could potentially lead to trouble.

Which was probably why Nie Mingjue had agreed to Meng Yao watching the door. Between the changing of the shifts, her timeline would get harder to follow.

…and now she had the Mission Impossible theme song stuck in her head. Again. Augh. She was going to strangle Nie Mingjue for humming it while they’d been planning.

On the plus side, aggravation was vastly preferable to anxiety, a lesson she’d learned as a surgeon. Hands steady, she knocked on the door to the lab. “It’s Wen Qing,” she said briskly.

After a moment’s pause, the door opened—

—and had she seen a flicker of red light just before the latch turned? Surely not…

Then she recalled Nie Mingjue’s dry amusement, and caught herself. Because cultivator. If he could make a sword fly, why not put some kind of protections on the door?

It… was an odd kind of relief. She was a doctor; violence wasn’t really something she was used to thinking about, on a personal level, but she’d seen enough victims of violence pass through her care to viscerally appreciate the thought of someone who was willing to draw their own lines to defend themselves, with the necessary skills to back those lines up.

And she was going to hound Lan Wangji until the man coughed up a list of what some of those skills supposedly were, because right now the only source she had to go on were xianxia shows.

“Hello!” Wei Wuxian said brightly, stepping back to allow her into the lab – although she saw his eyes flicker to the side, widening and then narrowing when he noted the absence of the usual guard. And when she looked more closely at him, there was a thoughtful look in his eyes. Clearly, he knew something was happening.

How much had Lan Wangji told him? Likely not very much, given the limitations of communicating. But it would help if Wei Wuxian had some sense of what was coming.

Then she looked again, because as previously noted: doctor, not dead.

Wei Wuxian laughed, posing dramatically, and Wen Qing huffed at him, but smiled despite herself. The man looked good, he knew he looked good, and he was comfortable enough with himself to be silly about it. There were far worse ways to respond.

And he did definitely look good. Lan Wangji had done a good job with the new clothes. The dark, dramatic colors suited him. Rather more importantly, he did not look like Yiling Laozu, the relic from the distant past frozen in ice.

Although he was definitely going to draw attention regardless, and not just because he was a tall, fit, gorgeous man in striking clothes. Those clothes were meant to deal with the chill of the lab; the minute he stepped outside, he was going to stand out as distinctly overdressed for the warm summer afternoon.

Fortunately that was one problem that was easy enough to solve, even if the solution was rather counterintuitive. Reaching into the bag, she pulled out a white lab coat – one of Lan Wangji’s spares – and held it out.

That, at least, would hide the striking clothes, and it wasn’t that unusual to see students and teachers hurrying across the campus with white coats over long sleeves; aggressive air conditioning was practically universal in the labs. Wearing a lab coat outside the labs was technically a violation of their purpose – but again, it wasn’t that uncommon to just leave it on at the end of the day, or as a status symbol of sorts.

Thankfully, they were in the relatively cooler mountain climate of Cloud Recesses. Trying to pull this off in the swelteringly humid lowlands didn’t bear thinking about.

That took care of the clothing. She couldn’t do anything about the man’s face, since there was apparently a tragic shortage of horn-rimmed spectacles with the magical power to make someone not the most gorgeous person ever seen…

…and if she was misquoting the Wonder Woman movie, then she was definitely freaking out more than she’d been willing to admit to herself.

Not that she didn’t have good reason to freak out. Technically speaking… if this wasn’t kidnapping, it was damn close.

Of course, if they were going to talk technicalities, she was “kidnapping” the man to rescue him from what was – technically – false imprisonment. With his cooperation – although she couldn’t say consent, not when she couldn’t explain anything to him in a meaningful way.

This is such a ridiculous, unnecessary mess!

Well. Since they were committed to this nonsense, there was one detail left that would absolutely give Wei Wuxian away as Yiling Laozu. Meeting the man’s eyes, she reached one hand over her own head, miming a tugging motion.

Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows rose at that. But he reached up and pulled the red ribbon out of his hair, releasing it from the high ponytail and letting it tumble down to lie against his back.

That definitely helped, but… pursing her lips, Wen Qing pantomimed braiding, muscle memory from when she’d worn her own hair long guiding the movements. Because no one was going to leave hair that long loose if they were working in a lab.

Of course, no one had hair that long, period, except for maybe celebrities and women living in rural villages that took the old customs about grooming more seriously. But one step at a time.

And while he was doing that… With a deep breath, Wen Qing toed off her sharp-heeled pumps. She’d never been a fan of high heels – it had always seemed pointless to risk a twisted ankle or shortened ligaments for a fashion that was fundamentally developed to make someone’s legs look sexier. But she’d learned that the added bit of height made a difference when dealing with far too many men… especially with the added psychological edge of the dangerous-sounding click they made against the floor.

Dangerous-sounding and distinctive, which was not what she needed at the moment. So she reached into her bag to pull out the ballet flats she preferred when actually working rather than posturing, slipping them on and tucking the pumps away.

When she looked up, she saw that Wei Wuxian was watching her thoughtfully, lips pursed ever so slightly. Obviously, he’d realized that something very odd was going on.

Then, with quick, practiced motions, he used the ribbon to tie the braid off – and immediately tucked it inside the lab coat, where no one would be able to tell at a glance just how long it was in comparison to the norm.

Yes, he absolutely knew that they were up to something.

Shifting his sword around until it was also hidden under the coat, Wei Wuxian looked at her and raised his eyebrows pointedly. In response, Wen Qing held out her bag, nodding to the pile of neatly folded robes on a corner of the table.

While he packed those away, she quickly gathered up the scattered papers, notebooks and writing tools he’d acquired, tucking them into the case where she usually carried her own notepads and documents. Given the morning’s revelations, her nerves jittered a little at handling the intricate lingfu – but she was not going to leave any of them behind, either. Especially if Nie Mingjue was right about them actually working.

Once she’d finished, she glanced around to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. But all that was left were odds and ends that had accumulated over the past week: the cot and blankets, the electric kettle, the screens and chamber pot.

Wei Wuxian was waiting, her bag slung over his own shoulder – either out of a sense of chivalry, or because he wasn’t interested in handing over all his earthly belongings to anyone. Which was perfectly reasonable.

Wen Qing drew in a breath, and braced herself.

Then she opened the door, stepped out – and turned, beckoning Wei Wuxian to follow.

He expected it – he had to, since her actions had made it obvious that she was going to take him somewhere. Even so, his eyes widened slightly, and he hesitated at the door itself.

And that… stung. Not because he didn’t trust her; he did, at least to a reasonable extent, or he wouldn’t be following along like this. But it drove the point home that no matter what her intentions for keeping him isolated in the lab, from his perspective he’d been a prisoner this whole time, never once getting to leave the room he’d first woken up in.

But the hesitation only lasted a half-second, barely more than a stutter in his stride, and then he was in the hallway, looking around with open and shameless curiosity.

“This way,” Wen Qing told him, starting down the hallway for the stairs.

She had to look back once or twice to make sure the man was actually following her; Wei Wuxian’s steps were ghostly silent even in the echo chamber of the hallway, as the man followed close on her own footsteps despite his distraction.

Then, as they stepped into the stairwell and she saw his eyes flicker up and down, sweeping their surroundings, she suddenly realized that distraction was the wrong word entirely. Because that wide-eyed interest was… not a mask, there was nothing feigned about it. But even as he looked around with that bright-eyed curiosity, he was studying their surroundings, wary and watchful.

No doubt about it; he knew she was at best skirting the very edge of the rules here.

When they reached the ground floor, habit almost turned her feet towards the conference rooms and the front entrance. Checking herself, she instead headed the other direction, towards the back, and the utility door.

The building had more than one entrance, of course. Given the security concerns that had surrounded the project even before Wei Wuxian woke, Nie Mingjue had taken the expedient of disabling all of the public entrances except for the front door, to make it easier to monitor who was coming and going. The utility door by the loading dock, however, had no ID lock to disable; it required an actual, physical key to unlock. A key that very few people actually had direct access to, since the door was rarely ever used.

But that was to get through the door from the outside. Like the door of the lab, fire codes required that the door couldn’t be locked against anyone trying to get out.

The only catch was that the utility door had no windows, nothing to let her see if anyone was outside… but they’d planned for that.

Pulling out her phone, Wen Qing sent a simple question mark. A few moments later, Nie Mingjue sent a thumbs-up emoji.

Well then.

Slipping the phone back into her pocket, Wen Qing gave herself a moment to breathe. Strange that she could feel so terrified and so stupid at one and the same time.

Because this was ridiculous! She should not be here, going through machinations practically worthy of the stupid Mission Impossible theme song, trying to smuggle a full-grown man across campus without anyone noticing! This felt like some kind of… living satire!

And yet…

The whole situation inside the project had proven far more volatile than she’d imagined. Add in the dark worries that Nie Mingjue had confided about the protests and those blasted bullets…

Well. She’d rather be too paranoid than not paranoid enough.

And that meant she had to keep the ticking clock in mind. Huffing, she pushed the door open and stepped outside.

As promised, the concrete loading dock was empty, with no one in sight. Good. They could take the back paths to circle around and cross the campus from a different angle, away from the lab building and along a path that would keep Wei Wuxian as distant from exposure to the summer student population as possible…

Behind her, Wei Wuxian drew in a sharp breath.

He was staring at the trees, wide-eyed. As she watched, he closed his eyes and just… breathed, face turned up to the sun.

Wen Qing hesitated. At the back of her mind, the urge to go-go-go was screaming at her…

But Wei Wuxian had been trapped in that lab for a week… and in ice for centuries.

I can give him a moment.

Ooh. Warm. Stuck in that room, he’d put the persistent bit of nip in the air out of mind; after several years pretty much living in a cave in the Burial Mounds, a little chill was hardly going to phase him!

But finally coming out into a bright sunny warm spot? He wanted to curl up in it like a lazy cat and just let the warmth soak in.

Opening his eyes again, Wei Wuxian blinked a few times to help them adjust, and allowed himself a breath of relief. The strange buzzy light bars in that room hadn’t just been a strange color, they’d flickered, like an unsteady candle except far faster. Trying to read or write in that light had consistently led to tired eyes and an aching head after a while. The warm, steady sunlight was a welcome change.

And! Green things!

Not that the Burial Mounds had been short on plant life, exactly. After all, macabre as it was, the place wasn’t exactly lacking for fertilizer. But with so much ambient resentment, plants often grew strangely. And resentful energy had a way of leaching color from its surroundings that had nothing to do with light or leaves.

Which made sense. Resentful energy was, at its core, pain and anger and grief and hate. None of which were the sort of thing that put one in the mood to pay attention to birdsong and sunshine and flowers! And when all of that was just drifting in the air… well.

He drew in another deep breath rich with the smell of sunbaked stone and growing things, and then looked at Wen Qing.

And blinked. She was waiting at the edge of the odd flat platform they’d come out on, anxious energy obvious in the way she was already half-turned onto the smaller of two paths, one leading away into the trees… but she was watching him with a small smile, eyes soft.

Take your time. I can wait.

He had to smile a little at that. Really, now that he thought about it, Wen Qing reminded him a great deal of Lan Yi. Brusque, ruthlessly practical… and beneath it all, a bone-deep, core-deep kindness.

Really, if Lan Yi ever met the woman, she’d probably adopt Wen Qing on the spot. Of course, then it would be both of them ganging up on him, so probably best to avoid that. Even if it would be hilarious.

However. Kind as her patience was, it was fairly obvious that they couldn’t afford to linger. He might be unaware of the details of the factional conflict he’d somehow gotten pulled into, but it was pretty obvious Wen Qing was breaking with someone’s orders to do this. Which meant getting caught would probably be bad. So… He grinned at her and waved a hand. Onwards!

After all, he was perfectly capable of gawking and walking at the same time. He was talented that way.

Even with so much to stare at. Starting with the path itself!

Not that it looked so strange at first glance, made up of large, smooth paving stones fitted together in an irregular, interconnected pattern. But the stones were almost unnaturally smooth and even, scarcely a corner poking up to stub a toe on, and no roughness or protrusions he could feel even with the worn-thin state of his boot soles. And there was nothing natural about the sharp, straight edges of the path, each side a perfect, even line as if someone had laid the stones in place, and then drawn a sword and simply sliced the excess away.

Which, granted, wasn’t impossible with a sufficient infusion of qi. Although it still tended to be hard on the sword. Still, it seemed a rather unnecessary extra step. Especially when the stones were fixed firmly in place with… actually, he wasn’t sure what the pale material was. Some kind of hardened white sand?

Come to think of it, the other path – wider, perhaps meant for carts that wouldn’t fit on this narrower route? – had been made entirely of a similar material, just with larger stones mixed into the sand and darker in color, with a sheen to it that made him suspect bitumen had been used as well.

Really, it was an impressive system; if the hardened sand really was as durable as it seemed, it would be an excellent way to avoid ruts that could damage a misaligned wheel, not to mention cutting down considerably on mud when the rains came, and far less bumpy than cobblestones! It made him wonder why they hadn’t used it for the footpath as well, since it was hard to imagine it would be more expensive or demanding than the finely fitted stones.

Then again, the hardened sand-and-gravel mix was not exactly aesthetically appealing. And this trail winding under the trees, dappled gold against blue-green shadows and smelling of summer greenery, curving in places seemingly for the sake of it, was definitely laid out with aesthetics in mind.

Although, speaking of aesthetics…

He tilted his head slightly to eye the strange buildings looming overhead in scattered glimpses through the trees. Overall, they didn’t look that strange, all things considered… but he’d seen smaller palaces than just one of those structures.

Granted, he’d definitely seen larger palaces as well. Thank you, Lanling Jin. Not.

Except that he had been to Jinlintai, so he had a fairly good idea of the sort of modifications needed to keep buildings that size and scale even remotely livable, and none of them were in evidence. That closed-off room he’d been in should have been stifling, not chilly – especially since it was obvious that the season was moving on towards midsummer, now that he was outside.

Not to mention that the aesthetic of the interior really did not match the exterior at all. Even the underlying structure of the buildings didn’t quite ring true. As if someone had gone to some effort to give this place the look of a sect or temple complex, but only on a surface level.

Perhaps he’d been thinking in the wrong direction. Rather than exiles or refugees fleeing the wars of the central lands (or a hidden enclave of very strange immortals!), perhaps these people had come to the area from another land, and were trying to blend in. That would at least explain why they seemed unaware of the recent war…

But the ghosts implied they’d been in this area for at least fifty years. Augh. Now his head hurt!

Ignoring his plight (not that he was stupid enough to make a show of his thoughts, but still!), Wen Qing continued along the path through the trees for a short distance, ignoring several branch paths that split off in several directions. Eventually, however, she did turn onto one of those paths, following it back towards the buildings they’d been skirting around. Just before they left the sheltering screen of the trees, however, she hesitated for a moment, drawing in a deep breath before squaring her shoulders resolutely.

Wei Wuxian smiled wryly. Oh, he knew that reaction. There was nothing quite like the moment before you walked into a town that you knew was in enemy hands.

Although, he was mostly certain that this wasn’t actually enemy territory, at least as far as Wen Qing was concerned. Then again, he’d had to walk through Lotus Pier when Madam Yu – and later, Jiang Cheng – had been in a temper. There honestly wasn’t that much of a difference.

Actually, the latter was probably more hazardous, now that he thought about it. Your odds of being noticed and stopped got a lot higher when people expected to see you there.

Still, the basic principle didn’t really change: head up, eyes forward, move with the crowd rather than against it, and walk like you had somewhere to be. So when Wen Qing stepped out of the trees, he moved with her, steps steady and confident as they passed through the shadows between two of the oversized buildings and out into sunlight again.

Sunlight and people, who he watched with interest even as he was careful to keep pace with Wen Qing’s confident stride. Rather a lot of people, actually. Not enough to really make for a crowd, even by the standards of, say, Yiling’s small market, but definitely enough to make the broad open space feel lively; mostly pairs and small groups strolling along the broad, stone-paved paths, with faster-moving singletons dodging around them as they overtook the slower-paced groups. Interestingly, most of them seemed to be moving in the same general direction…

Thoughtfully, Wei Wuxian glanced up, trying to gauge the angle of the light. It was a bit tricky, but if he recalled the time display from the room accurately, this wasn’t too far off the time Lan Wangji usually shared the evening meal with him. And… yes, the color and angle of the light was consistent with late afternoon in the summer, although the shadows seemed deeper and the air cooler than he would have expected…

Ah. There; the heavy bulk of a mountain peak standing roughly to the west of the complex. That explained both the shadows and the cool breeze, as well as the clarity of the air; this place must have been built in a mountain valley, away from the heavy summer heat of the lower lands.

He tried to study that peak out of the corner of his eye as he followed Wen Qing along the path. Something about the shape of it felt naggingly familiar, although he was quite sure he hadn’t seen it before. He’d have remembered that scooping scar, where a section of the mountain had cracked away at some point in the distant past. And it must have been distant indeed; he could see remnants of the old massif on the lower slope, half-covered now by the dark green of a forest that had not only grown back from the devastation, but grown deep and old in turn.

Which was reassuring. Whatever was going on with resentful energy here, the dragon lines of the land itself seemed to be strong.

Perhaps he’d seen this mountain before, but from a different angle, one that obscured the old rockslide? If so, then that would give him a chance to get his bearings and figure out where, exactly, he even was. Beyond “obviously not the Burial Mounds.”

Then again, maybe it was just the overall situation that felt familiar, rather than the mountain itself. If he didn’t focus too hard on the details, he almost felt like he was back at the guest disciple lessons hosted by the Gusu Lan before the war, as the juniors from the various sects made their way to the dining hall for dinner.

Of course, there were those pesky details to contend with, he noted. Not least of which being that he didn’t see anyone who was young enough to be counted as a junior disciple! Not even anyone Wen Yuan’s age. Not to mention an odd scarcity of anyone who might count as senior disciples, although he did note a few elders with silvering hair in the mix. And unlike the Gusu Lan, there didn’t appear to be any effort to separate the sexes; men and women were mingling freely, with the casual ease that suggested such mingling was the norm for them.

Not to mention the colors! The Gusu Lan had been insistent about guest disciples wearing the same white as their own disciples – although at least they didn’t go as far as Wen Ruohan had, shoving everyone participating in red when he hosted a cultivation conference. While this place… far from everyone being dressed alike, he was fairly certain no two people were dressed the same! The clothes were all in vivid colors – even the whites and blacks were sharp and clear – and looking around…

Well. It was quickly becoming evident that not only was a relative lack of layers the norm, but most of the people he’d met so far had been relatively overdressed. There was enough skin showing to give Madam Yu conniptions! And showing on men and women alike, which was both unexpected and interesting.

He was fairly certain there were patterns in what people wore – there always were, even in small villages – but definitely nothing like sect colors to be seen. The closest thing seemed to be a scattering of the same short, loose white robes he and Wen Qing were wearing, and that seemed to act more as a functional overlayer rather than a marker of affiliation per se, given that under the robes they all seemed to be wearing the same wide variety of colors and styles.

And no swords. Anywhere. He didn’t know what to make of that.

He couldn’t help puffing his cheeks out in a frustrated huff. He was used to assessing a thousand little pieces of information in a glance – sect, place of origin, temperament, rank… it was disconcerting to be inundated with information without knowing how to interpret it. No wonder Lan Yi’s seedlings always looked so lost every time they ventured down out of their secluded sect to the chaotic streets of Caiyi!

Still. The white robes were, at least, common enough that it was obvious why Wen Qing had given him one; no one looked twice at the two of them as they made their way across the complex.

…Except as their path took them past two young women coming the other direction, giggling as both of them stared at a small black device similar to the one that Wen Qing had used earlier. A bright pink cord looped down from the bottom of it and up, splitting in two halfway along its length. One end led to an equally pink something nestled in one woman’s left ear, while the other trailed in the direction of her companion’s right ear, so he presumed it was a listening tool of some kind.

The short length of the cord meant that the two were walking close together, the taller half-draped over the other and leaning in over her shoulder to look at the device in her hand. The combination meant that they were staggering and weaving a little as they walked, which was probably the source of at least some of the giggling.

It also meant that they weren’t really paying attention to where they were going, walking straight down the center of the path and very obviously completely unaware of Wen Qing and Wei Wuxian coming from the other direction. Amused – and a little bemused, because even at his troublemaking worst he couldn’t imagine letting himself be that careless of his surroundings – Wei Wuxian followed Wen Qing as she huffed in irritation and moved to the side of the path to let them pass.

Except that, just as they were walking past each other, the taller woman stumbled slightly, making the pair veer sideways and almost straight into him. Blinking, the taller woman looked up—

And gaped at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Her companion blinked at the woman’s reddened cheeks, then turned and looked at Wei Wuxian herself. Then her eyebrows shot up and she gave him a second, much more assessing look.

Wei Wuxian almost laughed. Now this was familiar enough! Quickly recalling what he’d seen some of the other walkers doing when encountering someone on the path, he smiled brightly and waved a hand in greeting, but carefully stuck very close to Wen Qing as she kept walking, without pausing to greet the women or even bow.

Which felt very strange… but it was what others had done. And it would be extremely awkward if they tried to draw him into a conversation when he couldn’t understand a word they said!

The high-pitched squeal as they passed wasn’t all that hard to interpret, though. Although he was impressed she’d managed to hit that pitch.

He couldn’t help grinning. That had been fun. It had been… well, a while since he’d had the chance to flirt just for the fun of it. During the war, too many people had been afraid of him – flirting was supposed to make people feel better, not scare them! And during his visits to Yiling… well, he hadn’t wanted anyone to respond for the wrong reasons.

Wen Qing laughed as well, a little shakily, as she glanced over her shoulder at the two women, who were clutching at each other and bouncing like a pair of village girls, talking rapid-fire over each other and waving their hands.

For just a moment, Wen Qing’s steps slowed slightly, as if something in that rapid chatter had caught her attention. Then she pursed her lips slightly, eyes sliding sideways to look at Wei Wuxian, as though calculating something.

Then she quirked an eyebrow at him. I have a plan, that expression said. Will you play along?

He raised his eyebrows right back, and didn’t bother hiding his flash of sardonic amusement. Because, really? Like he was suddenly going to stop playing along at this point?

Wen Qing snorted slightly, as if acknowledging the point. Then she… started talking? About what, he had no idea, but then she waved one hand, indicating a nearby building as if…

Ah. As if she was showing a newly arrived guest disciple around the complex.

Well. He might be beyond the age for a visiting disciple now (thankfully!), but… many of the people walking about the complex did seem to be roughly his own age. So perhaps it wasn’t such an odd cover to choose after all.

Except that if they really were so accustomed to hosting guests that seeing one being shown about was unremarkable… then they definitely weren’t isolated. Which meant, given the strange goods and clothing and language and the apparent lack of information about the recent war, meant that this place had to be a very long way from the central sect lands.

A long way from home. And he had no idea how he’d gotten here.

Still! It was certainly easy enough to follow attentively behind Wen Qing, looking wherever she gestured and interjecting a simple, “What is that?” and picking a new target more or less at random whenever Wen Qing seemed to be running short of things to say.

And fighting the urge to fall over laughing at the ridiculousness of it all. Or maybe just screaming in frustration. Because here he was, asking questions and getting answers – detailed answers, answers that were probably extremely informative and likely enough to tell him at least some of what he wanted to know. And none of it any use, because he was catching maybe one word in fifteen, and that was probably being generous.

It would be hilarious, if it weren’t so aggravating!

From the slightly incredulous tightness in Wen Qing’s shoulders and lips, the irony of the situation was not lost on her. Or possibly she was concerned that it wouldn’t be enough, as the crowds began to thicken, the small groups starting to stream together as they headed one large building in particular. But the ruse worked, at least; the two of them drew several curious glances as they veered around and past the crowd, but no one interrupted or stopped them.

Still, Wen Qing wasn’t the only one to breathe a subtle sigh of relief when they had passed the crush of the crowd and moved on into a quieter area. Quieter and older, he noted with interest; as they continued into another wooded area, he could see places where tree roots had grown up underneath the path, forcing the flagstones up and out of place. And none of the strange hardened sand holding the stones together, either.

The trees here were older as well, thick-boled and heavy with years that had twisted the branches, casting the depths of the woods in shadow broken by patches of light where elder trees had fallen. Although it was also clear that someone was clearing the woods at least somewhat regularly; he didn’t see much in the way of deadfall.

The impression of age became even stronger when they came around a turn and the path became a stone stair climbing up a steep slope. These stones were truly old, the outer edges where people generally didn’t walk grown over with thick green moss and the center of the steps bowed deeply, worn to a smooth, deep curve by the passage of who knew how many feet over countless ages.

And that was… unexpected. Nothing he’d seen up to this point had felt aged by any real measure. But this place… this place felt old, deep and rooted in the mountain slope.

Also steep. And long. Wen Qing might not be a cultivator, but she was clearly fit and in excellent health, and even so she was breathing hard by the time they had reached the top of the stairs and passed through a heavy gate in moss-covered walls to enter a new area of the complex.

Or perhaps better to say an older area. Because this section was clearly of an age with the stairs, in a way that had nothing to do with the actual age of the wood itself – because living in Lotus Pier, you learned to watch for the telltale signs of wood aging, and there was clearly a swath of buildings here that had been rebuilt relatively recently. Although not too recently; a few decades, perhaps.

So the fire was here, in the heart of the complex.

Because this was the heart, far older than the other areas. And, he noted, with none of the odd mismatch between the design of the buildings and their underlying structure that he’d noticed before. This area felt… organic, of a unified whole, in a way that the lower, outer area did not.

And perhaps that answered part of the mystery of when this place had been established. He remembered the renovations at Lotus Pier. The Wens hadn’t destroyed the complex – after all, the whole point of the attack was to claim the strategically advantageous and economically prosperous river port. But once the war was over…

Well. Jiang Cheng had been determined to build up Lotus Pier on a bigger, grander scale. Partially as a show of force to make up for the loss of disciples and the patronizing gazes of the older sect leaders who looked at Jiang Cheng’s youth and lost core and found him wanting, partially because he was determined that Lotus Pier would become something bigger and grander.

They’d blended the new construction with the original structures, but there was no way to evoke the weight of time and tradition in the newer expansions. It meant that the newer areas had always stood out somewhat; superficially, they’d echoed the older areas, but the similarities were often only skin deep.

Which rather fit the pattern he’d seen here, didn’t it? This older heart of the complex had been damaged, but the restorations had been done carefully, incorporated into the fabric not only of the buildings, but the complex as a whole. But clearly, the complex had expanded since, into the lower, newer area. Bigger. Grander. But not quite fitting the older style they aped as a result.

This older part of the complex was significantly less crowded, as well. Wen Qing visibly relaxed, letting her one-sided ramble come to an end as she led Wei Wuxian onto a side trail that circled the outer edge of the buildings. Curious, he followed.

He’d half-expected her to lead him into one of the buildings, but instead she continued to follow the side trail as it veered away, into the forested area – and they were starting to move into genuine forest now, away from the carefully tended, aesthetically pleasing stands of the lower area and the screening woods of the slope buffering the older section of the complex from the bustling outer area. Although it was clear that they were still within the complex; the path was clear and well-maintained, with branching paths leading away to other areas. And apparently there was a spring nearby – likely the water source the complex had initially been built around – because periodically small wooden bridges carried the path over small, bright streams of clear-flowing water.

And then another turn in the path, and the wood opened out to a small clearing around a house, a hint of garden walls on the other side.

As they approached, the door opened, and Lan Wangji stepped out. Nodding to Wen Qing, the man turned to Wei Wuxian and bowed.

“Welcome,” he said.

The tofu cubes sizzled as they hit the pan, the sound sharp and loud and oddly comfortable in the small kitchen. Lan Wangji stirred them a few times to ensure that they weren’t sticking to the bottom, then covered the pan to keep the oil from spitting onto the stovetop and turned to the pot on the other front burner. Lifting the lid, he gave the soup an experimental stir, nodding in satisfaction at the light, savory scent that wafted up with the steam.

Wei Wuxian made a noise of definite interest, craning his neck slightly to try and peer into the pot from his perch sitting on the counter, feet swinging idly in the air.

Technically, Lan Wangji knew he probably should shoo the man off the counter. If only to begin Wei Wuxian’s process of acculturation to the twenty-first century with some sense of proper etiquette. But… it had been a very long day. For everyone. Including him, and he at least had the advantage of knowing everything that was happening, and why, and what they were planning to do about it.

Wei Wuxian’s space had been invaded, his things stolen – and all of it using an opening that Lan Wangji himself had inadvertently created, with a gesture that he had intended as, and he thought had been taken as, hospitality. And Lan Wangji had only been able to explain the barest minimum before he’d had to leave to prepare for their plan. And now this sudden change.

Under normal circumstances, Lan Wangji had no doubt that Wei Wuxian would be bursting with questions – probably was bursting with them, and doubtless making a list in the back of his mind for later. But after Wen Qing had emptied her bag of his things and hurried away, he’d seemed content to quietly follow Lan Wangji to the kitchen as he went to put the final touches on dinner.

All things considered, he thought they could afford to forego the usual back and forth of questions and answers for the evening. The language lessons were work. They’d earned a day’s respite.

Lan Wangji would have liked to invite Wen Qing to stay, but she had been anxious to get back. All told, by the time she was back to the lab and walked out the front door again, it would have been roughly an hour since she’d arrived; a reasonable window of time, but enough that she didn’t want to push it much longer. Which left Lan Wangji to attempt to help Wei Wuxian settle in.

Which had been an… eye-opening experience for Lan Wangji. He had taken a sort of pride in living in a very traditional manner, keeping modern conveniences to a minimum to maintain the historic essence of the Jingshi. Preparing his home for Wei Wuxian’s arrival, however, he’d come to realize just how modern his life truly was.

Oh, the trappings of the Jingshi were traditional enough; the design of the lamps, the layout of the main room with its low table, the screens that covered the windows. But where the normal visitor would look at the silk and wood and simple, clean lines of the lamp, Wei Wuxian looked at the light – the steady, unwavering glow of a warm-colored high-efficiency LED. He looked at the books lining the shelves, books that no ancient household would risk having out in an open space to potentially be damaged or stolen, and only a wealthy household indeed would have them in such numbers. Discrepancies that would never catch the attention of a modern visitor, but which must have stood out like beacon fires to someone who had lived his whole life without such luxuries.

Although Wei Wuxian’s face had lit up when he spotted Lan Wangji’s guqin on its stand in the corner. Which was not where he normally kept it, but Lan Wangji had hoped it might serve as something familiar to use as a conversation piece, something where they could practice the words without the additional complication of trying to navigate completely unfamiliar concepts and items.

And he wanted to try playing together at some point. He’d recorded as many of Wei Wuxian’s idle performances as he’d been able during the hours in the lab, using his phone and his laptop – although he desperately wanted a chance to get real recordings made using proper, high-fidelity sound equipment. Hopefully, they could use the recordings to find out if the man knew any of the melodies that they knew had existed once but had no way to recreate. But listening to music was nothing like participating in it.

But that would have to wait for later, when things had calmed somewhat. For now, food and rest were more important.

Then there was the kitchen itself – although this came as less of a surprise to Lan Wangji, as that was one area where he very much preferred the advantages of modern conveniences. When he’d moved in, he’d been careful to upgrade to the best appliances available, selecting for efficiency more than flashy bells and whistles; he was not going to live so far from the roads and shops without good refrigeration and solid safety features, especially after he started hosting a young teenager on occasion.

Wei Wuxian had marveled at the refrigerator – although he seemed sensitive to the fact that one should not leave it open for too long, likely familiar with the old practice of ice boxes. But it likely wasn’t just the cold he found surprising; after that first meal, Lan Wangji had done some research, and for all that he normally adhered to seasonal cooking, many of the fruits and vegetables he considered standard staples in fact grew in different seasons as well – and many of them came in forms that would be nearly unrecognizable compared to their ancient versions. To say nothing of eggs and tofu, and the chicken he had thawed for dinner. Which had led to an equally intent investigation of the freezer, and then the gas stovetop when Lan Wangji turned the burners on – although he had, thankfully, approached the last very carefully.

For now, however, Wei Wuxian seemed to be content to perch on the side counter where Lan Wangji normally prepared tea, kicking his feet and humming idly as he watched Lan Wangji move about the kitchen with bright-eyed interest. The man hadn’t even bothered to put his hair back into the high tail he normally wore, leaving it down in the loose braid. Lan Wangji was hoping that was a sign that Wei Wuxian was comfortable enough with him to forego some of the trappings of formality, now that they would be sharing space.

Not that formalities had ever been a particular issue for Wei Wuxian, granted. But it gave him hope that the man was genuinely relaxed, rather than simply exhausted or overwhelmed.

At the moment, his attention had switched to the plume of steam rushing out of the vent of the rice cooker, nose twitching at the scent of cooking rice. Lan Wangji almost laughed; between the intent expression and the twitching nose, he couldn’t help thinking that the man looked like a particularly adventuresome rabbit.

Or a very hungry one. Fortunately, everything was almost done. Switching off the burner for the tofu, Lan Wangji added the cooked greens he’d set aside, stirring everything briskly a few times before scraping everything out into a serving dish.

Wei Wuxian bounced down onto his feet and picked the bowl up. “There?” he asked, tilting his head in the direction of the main room and the table.

“Mn.” Lan Wangji nodded.

That set a rhythm – Wei Wuxian ferrying bowls and utensils out to the table while Lan Wangji finished stirring the soup and added the final herbs, and then prepared the serving bowl for the chicken.

A soft click nearby was his only warning before an electronic racket rattled the air.

Beeeep! Beeeep! Beee…

Lan Wangji winced, hastily hitting the off switch on the rice cooker as Wei Wuxian yelped from the other room and poked his head around the door, eyes wide with surprise. For which Lan Wangji didn’t blame him in the least; he’d almost jumped out of his skin, having forgotten how bone-jarringly loud the timer on the cooker was. He normally didn’t use it; if he had the time and energy, he vastly preferred to cook his rice himself, or cooked noodles instead.

Opening the lid, he fluffed the rice and let it rest for a moment while he ladled the soup into bowls. Then he passed the soup bowls to Wei Wuxian, served out the rice as well, and then joined the man in the main room at the table.

Wei Wuxian was all but sparkling as he looked at the array of dishes. Understandably. Being stuck on only the “safe” foods that Wen Qing could identify from the campus kitchens, his diet had not exactly been cause for enthusiasm. It had helped that he didn’t seem to have any allergies to any foods that he recognized, but the danger of an unknown allergen being mixed into a sauce or cross-contamination meant that they’d continued to stick to very simple foods by necessity.

It was one of the reasons Lan Wangji had put some extra effort into preparing the night’s meal. From how free Wei Wuxian had been with the pepper, the man seemed accustomed to more flavorful food, and cooking in his home kitchen meant that Lan Wangji had full control over the ingredients; he could ensure that nothing they weren’t certain of was mixed in, while also making things with a little more taste to them.

He might, perhaps, have been showing off a bit, too. After all, he was a good cook – it was something of a hobby. And given that he was welcoming a new housemate who would be staying with him for an indefinite time, a little added effort for hospitality seemed appropriate.

A glimpse of red-orange in the corner of his eye caught his wandering attention just in time: distracted by his thoughts, he’d picked up the wrong item. Wen Yuan had lived in Hunan for a time, and as a result had the occasional taste for dishes spicy enough that even being near them frankly made Lan Wangji’s eyes water. Originally, the boy had been conscientious about not inflicting his taste for spice on Lan Wangji, but then Wen Ning had let slip that he and Wen Qing could rarely afford the high quality spices and chili oils required for that sort of cooking. So Lan Wangji had started keeping some available, for when Wen Yuan chose to visit.

Very deliberately setting the chili oil aside, Lan Wangji considered that. With Wei Wuxian in the guest room… knowing Wen Yuan, he would happily volunteer for a mattress in the main room, but Lan Wangji would be a poor host if he accepted. Perhaps he could clear out the office? 

The one complication was that he would want to have ready access to his reference books there. And he didn’t want to move them out into the main room. The office he could lock, and he was reasonably certain that, at least for the time being, Wei Wuxian would honor a locked door out of courtesy if nothing else. Because he’d definitely noticed that Wei Wuxian tended to gravitate towards books; Lan Wangji would not put it past the man to pick up a book at random and use what he’d figured out of the writing system and its changes so far to start teaching himself to read properly by brute force.

Which would not be a bad thing, except that most of Lan Wangji’s reference books were histories. There would be names Wei Wuxian knew in there, by reputation alone if not personally…

And Lan Wangji honestly didn’t know which would be worse. Seeing the names of people you knew, batted about as weapons of debate by warring scholars with axes to grind? Or not seeing their names all, and discovering that your friends and loved ones had been completely forgotten by history?

Wen Qing was right. The grief, when it hit, was going to hit hard.

And Wei Wuxian was no fool. He would notice when a history book started listing names he knew. Listing them in the context of the distant past.

Lan Wangji may not have figured out how he did want to broach that particular revelation, but that was definitely not how he wanted to do it. There was a reason he had gone to some effort to reorganize his shelves this afternoon.

And on a more practical note, most of those texts were not a good way to learn a language. Lan Wangji had, as Wen Qing and Nie Mingjue had correctly (annoyingly) noted, grown up immersed in the language of academics and scholars, and even he got headaches trying to wade through the prose of some of those writers.

Wei Wuxian made a startled sound, and Lan Wangji blinked, realizing he’d once again been lost in his own thoughts. During which…

Oh. He was holding the bottle of chili oil, having worked the top off, and was sniffing at the open with a look of open puzzlement. A quick swipe of a callused fingertip collected the residue clinging to the lip of the bottle, and Wei Wuxian tilted his head back and forth, clearly baffled by the almost violent color.

Then, before Lan Wangji could think to warn the man, he licked the residue off his finger. And made a very startled sound.

Lan Wangji bit back an internal cringe. That particular chili oil was painfully hot, even when you knew what was coming—

Wei Wuxian sparkled. There was no other word for it. And added a light drizzle to the greens and tofu.

Lan Wangji stared at him.

Plucking up some of the doctored greens, Wei Wuxian chewed thoughtfully, and then grinned even more broadly, humming happily. And added more, blinking innocently at Lan Wangji’s undisguised look of complete disbelief.

…Apparently the Hubei inclination towards hot foods had very deep roots.

Lan Wangji sighed, shaking his head. Wei Wuxian laughed brightly at him, alternating bites of the doctored greens, the rice, and the chicken – which was gratifying, at least; he clearly did appreciate the original flavoring Lan Wangji had added. The greens had simply been seasoned with salt and pepper. And interestingly, he’d clearly figured out that grains worked well at clearing the palate to buffer the burn.

Well. At least capsaicin allergies were very rare – and if he had a reaction, he wouldn’t be alone in the lab.

And if he liked it that much… well. Lan Wangji could stock more, and see if there were other varieties available.

Although now he was wondering. Did Wei Wuxian cook? He’d seemed a little surprised by the kitchen, but that could just have easily been the multitude of unfamiliar devices and familiar tools made with unfamiliar designs and materials. Originally, the Jingshi hadn’t had a kitchen at all; that was a later addition, because historically the inhabitant had been fed from the main kitchens, along with everyone else living in the complex. And it would have been unusual for a noble or a titled scholar to cook for himself – and Lan Wangji was fairly certain that was how Wei Wuxian had tentatively identified him for the moment.

On the other hand, Wei Wuxian had watched him as if he understood the process, if not the specific tools and techniques Lan Wangji had used. Given the chaos of the era, it probably wouldn’t have been unusual for even a noble to know at least the basics of camp cooking. And if he understood the implications of Wei Wuxian having been affiliated with Yunmeng Jiang, whoever they may have been, then he likely had been a noble’s retainer, rather than a noble himself. Which would have included certain practical skills considered beneath a noble’s dignity.

So it was quite likely he did know. Which might be another promising venue for the language lessons. Lan Wangji could show him how to use the modern appliances – and cooking was a cooperative activity, or at least it could be. Which would be an excellent context for practical, useable conversation skills.

And giving him things to do, an actual role to play, would help Wei Wuxian start integrating. Even if the man’s spice tolerance was terrifying.

But that would have to be a project for later. Even if they hadn’t just eaten, Lan Wangji was exhausted, and Wei Wuxian likely was as well. And it was getting late. He’d delayed the final dinner preparations until after Wei Wuxian had arrived, just in case. Now the sun had long descended behind the western mountain, and even the light in the sky was quickly fading, despite the late summer sunset.

Gathering the dishes from the table, Lan Wangji went back to the kitchen. He’d deliberately made more than needed of several of them; those could go into the refrigerator to supplement later meals, or as potential snacks.

He’d hosted Wen Yuan. He understood the dire necessity of having things available to nibble.

To his surprise, Wei Wuxian gamely stepped in as well, picking up the emptied dishes and scrubbing them clean – although he seemed highly amused by the dish detergent when Lan Wangji demonstrated its use, generating a prodigious amount of froth and then cheerfully forming shapes with it, only to chuckle as the bubble sculptures almost immediately collapsed. For all his amusement, however, he did the work with brisk efficiency, and soon the last of the dishes had been wiped down and set on the drying rack – a dishwasher being one of the modern conveniences, that Lan Wangji had been content to forego.

It had seemed practical at the time; one person didn’t generate that many dishes. Once Wen Yuan joined them, however…

At least he didn’t have a microwave. The thought of explaining how to use one safely – and how to answer the inevitable but how does it work? – was beyond daunting.

Drying his hands, Lan Wangji waved for Wei Wuxian to precede him back to the main room – the kitchen was narrow, having been designed for a single person. Then he led the way through the door that opened onto the covered veranda that served as a walkway connecting the front area to the more private spaces of the house.

The original design of the Jingshi had been quite simple: three rooms arranged in a row facing the main garden, the central room acting as a formal receiving space and flanked by the bedroom on one side and a more relaxed sitting area with a hearth on the other. But over the centuries, it had expanded somewhat. Part of the sitting area had been partitioned off and connected to the formal receiving room as the kitchen; the rest of the space had become a study, with windows arranged to catch the light. Although Lan Wangji suspected it might have been intended as a guest room originally; that would explain the addition of the current guest room next to it, on the northern side where it wouldn’t interfere with the light. And then there were other very important additions that had come with the advent of indoor plumbing.

Lan Wangji reached for the door handle and then hesitated when he realized that Wei Wuxian hadn’t followed him along the walkway. Instead, he had stopped short just outside the formal main room to look out over the garden.

The gathering dusk had draped the garden in shades of deepening blue. By this time, the magnolias had dropped their petals, leaving just the white lotuses to stand out, almost luminescent against the shadows. Here and there, the ripples from the small stream feeding into the pond glinted and shimmered as they caught the light from the small, solar-powered lanterns he’d scattered across the garden, following the stone-paved footpath and two planted off-center in the water. Dim lights; he didn’t want the artificial light to confuse the fish in the pond, but he liked the way they gleamed like stars among the greenery in the evenings.

After a minute or two, Wei Wuxian shook himself slightly and turned away from the scene, smiling crookedly in apology for the delay. Lan Wangji shook his head; so far as he cared, that long pause had been a compliment of the highest order. The chaotic period between the fall of the Han and the rise of the Sui had marked the rise of scholarly meditation gardens like this, as poets and scholars embraced principles of retreat from secular life. It was… flattering, to have someone who had lived when the style was born so impressed by his own efforts.

And he was also glad to see the enthusiastic bounce back in Wei Wuxian’s step as the man trotted over to join him. Not that it had been gone, exactly… but there had been a subtle edge of calculation, of wary readiness, so well disguised that he hadn’t really noticed it until it was gone. Hopefully, that was a sign that Wei Wuxian felt he could genuinely relax here.

And speaking of relaxing… turning the handle, Lan Wangji opened the door and stepped into the bathing room.

He was fairly confident that this was an older expansion of the Jingshi; it didn’t have the odd tucked-into-available-space feel of the kitchen, for example. Whatever it had been, it was clearly designed for using water, with the floor sunk into the ground so that one had to descend two steps to the actual floor, and a drain in the floor itself. It might have been a laundry, perhaps – but Lan Wangji was skeptical that a house with no kitchen would have had a dedicated space for laundering.

He was not at all surprised when Wei Wuxian’s face lit up at the sight of the large tub. It was a very nice tub, after all – one of his not-so-small indulgences, although he’d been careful to select one that maintained the classical aesthetic of the room, with golden bamboo slats for the walls and paving stones worn silk-smooth for the flooring. Infinitely preferable, in his mind, to the tiling that Lan Xichen had suggested when they had been renewing the grout and updating the plumbing. Even if the tiles would have been easier to maintain.

There was a small closet beside the door with shelves to hold towels and toiletries. Lan Wangji had cleared a space earlier for the towels and bath beans he’d acquired for Wei Wuxian, which he had picked up as they’d left the main room. He set them on the open shelf, making certain that Wei Wuxian saw him doing so. Which was easier said than done; Wei Wuxian was paying close attention, yes, but he was also distracted by the glass-paned cubicle in the corner, casting puzzled glances at it from the corner of his eye.

Which. Well. It would be a lie if Lan Wangji were to claim that he hadn’t been looking forward to introducing this aspect of the twenty-first century.

The wide-eyed stare when he turned the shower on was every bit as gratifying as Lan Wangji had anticipated.

Gingerly, Wei Wuxian reached into the spray, pulling his hand back in obvious surprise when he discovered that the water was warm. He blinked at his fingers, then at the steam starting to gather inside the shower stall, and then turned those wide grey eyes to look at Lan Wangji.

Carefully not smiling at the reaction, Lan Wangji nodded before reaching in and turning the water off again.

From the way Wei Wuxian eyed the handles, he was seriously considering just jumping straight in now, clothing and all. Which Lan Wangji fully understood; it hadn’t missed his notice that Wei Wuxian hadn’t attempted to wash his hair earlier. Understandable, in the chill of the lab, but it had to be uncomfortable.

He would have to introduce Wei Wuxian to the heaters; a central furnace and thermostat was another modern convenience he had deliberately chosen to forego. But that could wait for later. For now… Well. The next room was the awkward one. Because while traditional living had its appeal in many aspects of life, the toilet was not one of them.

Thankfully, the word for toilet – chamber pot, technically – was one they had already worked out. And Lan Wangji could only be deeply, deeply, incredibly grateful that toilet paper had already been in use in China by the sixth century, because he could not conceive of how he would have explained that. Which meant all he really needed to do was demonstrate how the flushing system worked.

Wei Wuxian’s eyebrow quirked at that part, in what was probably the most dubious expression Lan Wangji had seen on him. Which was unexpected, given his usual enthusiasm for new things…

Oh. Of course; from the perspective of someone who had lived before modern plumbing and water treatment systems, when access to clean, fresh water dictated the building of cities and the course of wars, flushing, even using a water-efficient system, would seem like the sort of lavish waste only the most sheltered noble would think of. And while Lan Wangji had explained plumbing on a basic level, without septic tanks, disposing of waste so close to a water source was less lavish and more utterly idiotic.

Both valid, even crucial concerns. Both matters that Lan Wangji had never really thought about, save as abstract principles when assessing necessary renovations to the Jingshi and potential guidelines for interpreting decisions made in the deep past. Strange, to realize that living in the modern age meant that he was more sheltered from the realities of sickness and deprivation than even the most sheltered and privileged emperor.

Food for thought – and probably an interesting conversation to have later, when communication was something they could approach more casually. For now, he could only nod – yes, this truly is the way we do this – and then move on to the last room.

Setting the rest of Wei Wuxian’s things on the clothes chest, Lan Wangji stood back and let Wei Wuxian explore, watching his reactions with interest. Like the rest of the Jingshi, the design, layout and furnishings of the guest room were traditional in style, but while the overall Jingshi tended to adhere fairly closely to the classical aesthetics of the Tang Dynasty, the guest room was an eclectic mix of traditions spanning roughly a thousand years.

And, of course, certain things that weren’t traditional at all. Lan Wangji couldn’t quite hold back his amusement at Wei Wuxian’s startled expression when he sat on the corner of the bed and bounced.

Wei Wuxian huffed, wrinkling his nose at Lan Wangji as he poked quizzically at the pillow and the blankets, obviously assessing the difference in quality from the rather basic ones he’d been using on the cot in the lab. Then he grinned and bounced on the mattress again, deliberately this time, to pop back up to his feet.

Watching Wei Wuxian wander over to investigate the desk – at least he’d remembered to clear out the odds and ends that Wen Yuan had accumulated over his various stays, mostly spare charging cords and earphones and backup batteries – Lan Wangji was caught off-guard by a jaw-cracking yawn. Glancing through the window, he realized it was later than he’d expected; the blue light of dusk had already given way to full night.

The yawn had caught Wei Wuxian’s attention. The man glanced around the room once more, then looked at Lan Wangji and tilted his head. “You sleep where?” he asked, curious rather than concerned. Doubtless he’d already inferred from the empty desk drawers and lack of personal touches that this room was intended for guests, rather than Lan Wangji’s own.

Lan Wangji nodded in the direction of the master bedroom, on the other side of the main room. Wei Wuxian poked his head out the door, then nodded, obviously marking the door leading to the extended section on the other end of the walkway.

Lan Wangji lingered long enough to show Wei Wuxian the switch on the dimmable lamp on the desk, and the blankets folded in the chest at the foot of the bed. Then he bade the man good night and retreated to let him settle in, withdrawing to his own room.

There, he hesitated briefly. He probably should make his notes on the evening while everything was fresh in his mind. Not to mention that Wen Yuan was likely waiting anxiously for news; Lan Wangji had updated him on the situation with the project earlier, with Nie Mingjue stopping by to verbally inform Wen Yuan about the details that Lan Wangji did not want to put in writing. Paranoid, perhaps – but this situation was unsettling enough to warrant extra caution.

He was disappointed that he hadn’t seen Wen Yuan’s expression when Nie Mingjue had revealed the floating sword detail. Apparently there had been much squeaking.

By mutual agreement between himself, Nie Mingjue, and Wen Qing, however, they had decided not to inform Wen Yuan of what they were planning or where Wei Wuxian was now staying. None of them wanted the boy to be dragged into the inevitable backlash of that decision, or pressured to give up the secret.

Which meant that Lan Wangji would need to keep two sets of notes for the next week; one for himself, with a full accounting of what they did and discussed, the other for Wen Yuan and consumption among the project more generally.

Lan Wangji considered his options, and sighed to himself. His work ethic said to finish the notes now. But it was already later than his usual bedtime, after a chaotic day. He would compromise by jotting down the highlights, but in the balance, he suspected resting well tonight would be more important.

Tomorrow would be… stressful.

The stunned silence lasted for what felt like several minutes, although in reality it was probably no more than a few seconds.

The stark contrast made the explosion of shouting that followed all the more deafening.

Wen Qing didn’t let that reaction show, however – not on her face or her body. She simply sat, primly correct, spine straight but not stiff and hands resting relaxed on the table in front of her, fingers lightly interlaced. Every aspect of her body language conveyed calm. Control. Confidence. And with them, authority and power.

And she let her unmoved silence and granite expression worthy of Lan Wangji declare just how utterly unimpressed she was.

Lan Wangji himself was joining the meeting over video call, to maintain his strict quarantine, using the built-in system rather than Wen Qing’s laptop. That was a deliberate decision on their part; he would intervene if needed, but if possible she wanted to avoid drawing attention to him and his involvement. The last thing they needed was his strained relationship with his uncle coloring Lan Qiren’s decisions… or people guessing where Wei Wuxian might have gone.

Wen Qing would rather have had that added bit of distance herself… but there was no way this could happen any way but in person, not if she wanted to make her point stick.

Lan Qiren eventually broke through the tumult by slamming his hands on the table. “Silence!” he bellowed, sweeping the group with a furious, quelling glare.

A glare he then turned upon her. “Explain yourself, Doctor Wen!”

Wen Qing met his fury with chill silence for a moment, cool expression never wavering. Then she replied, “You yourself were present for the incident, Director Lan. Yesterday morning, Jin Zixun violated the lab quarantine, intentionally and knowingly. He expressed neither regret nor remorse.” She held Lan Qiren’s stare a moment longer, then deliberately turned her gaze to Lan Xichen, seated next to him. “When I objected, Project Manager Lan declared that this blatant violation of project protocol and regulations was only an overreach of authority.” She narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, including Professor Yao in her stare. “It has also come to my attention that he faced no reprimand for his actions.”

Professor Yao spluttered; Wen Qing was starting to suspect that he did that as much to dodge awkward questions as he did out of actual outrage. Lan Xichen, on the other hand…

“Surely there’s no need for that?” he said, blinking. “It was only his first offense, after all.”

Wen Qing refused to dignify that with an answer. Because given the number of complaints she and Nie Mingjue had logged about Jin Zixun’s conduct, the fact that this was not the idiot’s first offense was a matter of formal record. She just held Lan Xichen’s eyes for a long moment until he flushed slightly, gaze sliding away from hers.

Good. So he could hear his own foolishness, if forced to pay attention to what he’d said.

Deliberately, she swept the gathered project personnel with her eyes. “The quarantine, as I have stated multiple times and to which you have all affirmed your understanding, is vital to ensuring Wei Wuxian’s health and safety. Given the clear disregard for this fact that I witnessed, I have exercised my prerogative as his physician to remove him from an unsafe environment.”

Now she turned her flat stare back to Lan Qiren, whose face was cycling through a remarkable range of colors. It was obvious that he desperately wanted to rage at her about overstepping her authority… except that, as the physician overseeing Wei Wuxian’s health, she did have that authority.

Now to really unleash the fox in the henhouse.

“Furthermore. Given that Manager Lan apparently felt he had the right to authorize the outright theft of Wei Wuxian’s personal belongings on Professor Yao’s behalf, I will not be disclosing Wei Wuxian’s new location.”

That set off a whole new surge of furious talking – drowned out by Professor Yao’s outraged roar of, “Theft?! How dare you…”

A sharp, icy look cut his words off. “Your student took those items without asking. After I had made it clear that you were not permitted to do so. Now look me in the eye and tell me that you would have returned them.”

“Of course not!” the man blustered. “Those are, priceless, irreplaceable artifacts and require proper handling and storage!”

Well. At least he admitted it. “That,” Wen Qing said coolly, “is theft, Professor Yao.”

“Doctor Wen, I understand your concerns,” Lan Xichen said sternly. “However, the artifacts associated with Yiling Laozu do belong to the university…”

“They do not,” she corrected brusquely, before he could continue.

That finally broke Lan Qiren’s apoplectic silence. “Must I show you the deed of possession?!” he demanded.

A throat cleared. “About that, Director.”

All eyes turned to Nie Mingjue, and Wen Qing carefully controlled the urge to smirk. She had to keep the dispassionate mask of the uninterested professional in place, or she risked having her concerns dismissed as romantic emotionalism.

“I’ve had my people checking into the legalities of the situation,” Nie Mingjue explained. “Long story short, that deed of possession was written on the assumption that the original owner was dead. Given that he’s not, and his prior claim is undeniable given that he was wearing all of it when the deed was signed?” He shrugged. “I’m sorry, Director, but that deed of possession is invalid.”

That rendered Lan Qiren speechless again.

Lan Xichen slowly closed his mouth, eyes flickering around the room, and then cleared his throat. “Of course, they are his belongings,” he said slowly. “But Professor Yao is not wrong about the importance of proper preservation and storage. Surely, now that we’ve provided appropriate replacements…”

Wen Qing didn’t even try to hide her disbelief. “Setting aside the fact that no one has consulted him about any of this, how do you provide an appropriate replacement for the sword that he probably received from his father or his teacher? The embroidery that was probably done by a relative he will never see again?”

She shook her head, lowering her voice ever so slightly so that the people gathered around the table reflexively leaned in just a little to hear – the better to make them pay attention. “Wei Wuxian is a young man who has lost everything. His friends, his family, his home, his very society – even his enemies are gone. He’s even lost his language for all intents and purposes, given that no one speaks it anymore. And now you want to demand what little he has left? Including the shirt off his back?”

Lan Xichen blinked at that, looking completely taken aback. As if that perspective had never even occurred to him—

Of course it hadn’t. He’d agreed to Professor Yao’s demands because – at least on a surface level – it had seemed like the simplest way to make everyone happy. It had seemed fair, a way to keep the peace.

And once he’d committed to the decision, he’d simply… not considered all the ways that it wasn’t fair at all to the person who would be most affected by Lan Xichen making agreements on his behalf, since Wei Wuxian wasn’t someone Lan Xichen had to interact with.

More than a few people around the table were blinking as well, even Professor Yao, to the exasperated sidelong glances of several others. Good. They were thinking, now, in a way that they hadn’t before.

Which meant that this was the best opening she was going to get to dive into the real problem.

So Wen Qing let her words sink in a moment longer, before pulling brisk professionalism around herself like donning a set of surgical scrubs. “Which leads me to the second reason I requested this meeting,” she said, all business. “In the course of yesterday’s incident, it has come to my attention that most of you have never conducted research involving living human subjects before, and are unaware of the regulations involved.”

More like none of them. Archaeologists generally didn’t conduct medical or psychological research – or at least, not the kind that involved dealing with living people – and Lan Qiren’s allergy to anything that even hinted of soft sciences meant he had no interest in incorporating anthropological research into his work. And, of course, he’d selected for similar mindsets when building his research team. Admittedly, not unreasonable for a project intended to study a corpse fifteen hundred years old. Rather awkward, now that the research subject turned out to not be a corpse after all.

As she’d expected, the announcement garnered blinks from nearly everyone present. Including Lan Xichen, who leaned forward with interest. “Yes, that does make sense,” he agreed. “Do you have resources regarding the pertinent regulations we can distribute?”

“I will send them to all project members after the meeting,” Wen Qing told him. And bit back the urge to snarl, or maybe bang her head on the table, because she’d already provided those resources to Lan Qiren for him to distribute in his role as project director. She’d known he’d been resistant to her requests to re-evaluate the research plan, but not that he had apparently actively ignored pertinent information!

Then again, she’d certainly suspected. Which was why she’d chosen this approach.

“However,” she continued briskly, “there is one aspect of those regulations we need to address immediately.” She met Lan Xichen’s eyes squarely. “Manager Lan, you appear to be under the impression that as project manager, you have the authority to grant permission for research involving Wei Wuxian and his belongings. You do not.”

That sent surprised mutters rippling around the table. And Lan Qiren, predictably, bristled. “Doctor Wen, that is expressly his role as project manager, as laid out in the main plan of the project—”

“Director Lan, you do not have the power to authorize such research.”

Dead silence.

Wen Qing leaned back in her chair, deliberately relaxed. “Professors. Of everyone involved in this project, there is only one person who can authorize any research. Whatsoever.”

Pandemonium erupted.

“What do you mean—”

“How dare you presume to dictate—”

“You overstep yourself, Miss Wen!”

Wen Qing eyed the way Lan Wangji’s lips pursed ever so slightly in his version of a frown, and bit back the urge to laugh. I win that bet.

Poor, naïve Lan Wangji. He’d never been part of a large research project before. Meaning he’d never really been exposed to the constant jockeying for the most high-authority, high-status position available. Or the assumption that of course everyone else would have the same priorities.

And if that thought was slightly panicked… well. She’d come prepared to be the target of frustrated ambitions, but that didn’t mean she liked it.

She refused to let that show, and simply sat back in her chair, the picture of relaxed patience. And, after the first minute passed with no sign of the shouting abating – even Lan Qiren couldn’t shout down this chaos – she quietly, deliberately slipped her phone out of her pocket.

Because the universe apparently did have a sense of humor, a momentary lull in the waves of shouting coincided perfectly with the victory music as she completed the latest level in her game.

In the appalled silence that followed, she looked up and arched an eyebrow. “When you are finished throwing tantrums, I will continue. I can wait.”

Probably not the most politic thing to say, she granted, as the room exploded into shouting all over again. But very satisfying. And honestly, she’d never been all that inclined to be politic in the first place.

“ENOUGH.”

As shocked quiet fell again, Wen Qing rubbed her ringing ear and scowled at the tiger who’d seen fit to roar right next to her.

Nie Mingjue shrugged unapologetically. “You may be willing to wait, Doctor, but I have other things I need to do today.”

Given that he’d contacted both her and Lan Wangji before the meeting to warn them that they needed to talk afterwards… not entirely reassuring. Hopefully it was just details on how to maintain security given the new arrangement.

Nodding, Wen Qing set her phone down. “Professors. I do not have the power to authorize research, either.”

Good. That took the wind out of their sails, outrage replaced by bafflement.

Now, finally, she could get to the real point.

“He is an adult in good health and of sound mind. Which means, Professors, that the only person in the entire project who can legally authorize any research involving Wei Wuxian or his belongings is Wei Wuxian.”

Hm. She’d always thought the saying about hearing a pin drop was literary license. At the moment, she might actually believe it. Despite the fact that the conference room was carpeted.

She folded her hands on the table in front of her, the very picture of calm professionalism again. “I apologize,” she told them. “I am a medical researcher; part of my training included the ethical obligations inherent in conducting human subject research, including the absolute importance of informed consent by the subject. I should have spoken to everyone sooner, but I thought it best to let Director Qiren address the issue, as he is head of the project.”

Which he did not do, she did not say, very loudly. Across the table, Lan Wangji’s eyes glinted agreement. Always good to have a partner in the art of well-earned pettiness, she supposed. She was very sick of Lan Qiren stonewalling her efforts to raise the topic of necessary changes to his research plan.

Lan Xichen cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly. “Doctor Wen, you have raised an excellent point.”

I sense a ‘but’ coming, she thought cynically.

“Of course, Wei Wuxian should have the final say. However…”

Close enough.

“…I’m sure we can come to a satisfactory arrangement. After all, if the project had not decided to thaw Yiling Laozu…”

“Brother. Stop,” Lan Wangji said shortly.

Lan Xichen started, clearly not having expected an interruption from that quarter. Seizing the opening, Wen Qing leaned forward.

“Manager Lan,” she said, letting a sharp edge slip into her tone. “There are three problems with what you were about to say.”

Lan Xichen gave her a look that distinctly had an air of chiding to it. Which, in a way, she could understand. Doubtless, the man thought he was being helpful, smoothing ruffled feathers by conceding her primary point while suggesting a few minor concessions to keep the more recalcitrant among the project happy, letting them save face with justifications for their behavior.

In theory, it was even a good approach. Except for the fact that it was the same mindset that had gotten them to this point in the first place.

So she ignored the performative disappointment and raised a finger. “First: Wei Wuxian owes us nothing.”

Someone – Professor Liu, she thought – scoffed loudly. “If not for us, he’d still be frozen!”

“He didn’t ask us to thaw him, either,” Wen Qing said dryly. “And we certainly didn’t ask his permission. He had no say in any of it.” She arched an eyebrow sardonically. “And I have to say that it strikes me as highly inappropriate to say he owes us for something that we did with the express intent of using his dead body for our benefit.”

That got her more than a few sour looks; most of the researchers worked in bioanthropology, after all, which meant they had certain attitudes regarding what counted as desecrating the dead. Along with a touchiness about accusations of doing so. But she was relieved to see several embarrassed faces, and more people nodding thoughtful agreement.

“And before you bring up the food and clothes,” Nie Mingjue said, just as Lan Xichen was opening his mouth to likely do exactly that, “I should point out that technically speaking, he’s been in illegal confinement since he woke up. Yes, we’re doing it to keep him safe, but for all intents and purposes we’re pretty much holding him prisoner. Basic necessities are something we owe him, not the other way around.”

That drew a number of frowns and offended looks, and Wen Qing quickly raised a hand. “Yes, the fact that we cannot communicate effectively with Wei Wuxian at the moment is a large part of that particular situation. However, that brings me to my second point, Manager Lan. Which is that Wei Wuxian does not currently speak any modern language. He also does not know where or even when he is.” She shook her head. “Under the current conditions, any ethical review board would consider any consent he might give invalid, because it would not be informed consent by any reasonable measure. Which means,” she concluded, moving her eyes slowly over the table before finally stopping on Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen, “until Wei Wuxian has learned our language and adapted to the modern era, even he cannot legally authorize any research.”

From the murmurs and expressions of dismay and chagrin around the table, her point was – finally – starting to sink in. “But that could take a month and more! What are we supposed to do until then?” someone groaned.

“I would recommend revising your research plans to reflect the fact that you will be working with a living subject,” Wen Qing replied… well, as mildly as she could manage, given that she’d been trying to push this point for a week, when it should have been obvious. “Our current circumstances mean we cannot immediately request a review committee to clear them, but that means every proposal will be under even more exacting scrutiny when we do publish. Director Lan can then devise a new project plan.” She stood. “Now, as Mr. Nie has said, there is much we need to do today. So unless there are any questions…?”

“Just one.”

She turned, raising an eyebrow at Lan Qiren.

He glowered at her. “You stated there were three reasons why Xichen’s suggestion was unacceptable. You have named two. I see no reason for you to hold back your objections at this point.”

Hm. Someone was feeling bitter about being called out in public. Pity he had refused to listen every time she’d done it privately.

Ah well. He’d asked. “Director Lan, if you cannot see the ethical problem with using a debt to coerce a young man who currently has nowhere else to go into submitting to the seizure of his belongings and violation of his person to satisfy our curiosity, then I have profoundly overestimated your moral character.”

Lan Wangji paused midway up the stairs leading to the old monastery complex from the empty office he had used for his video call and just… breathed for a moment, gathering the tension of the morning into his lungs to be released with every steady, measured exhale.

He’d known it was going to be a long morning, of course. It was still a shock to realize just how wrung out he’d felt by the time he’d been able to escape.

The initial meeting with the project participants had been bad enough, and they’d deliberately planned that to deflect attention from Lan Wangji’s role. But after that had been a private meeting with Lan Qiren. Ostensibly to lay out a more detailed plan for how the project would proceed.

Lan Qiren, of course, had not been pleased about being called out in public. Especially given that they had, for all intents and purposes, carried out an internal coup of the project’s management. He also was no fool; he knew perfectly well that if they’d moved Wei Wuxian out of the lab, Lan Wangji had to have been involved.

Wen Qing had no patience for any of it.

“I warned you,” she’d told his uncle bluntly. “I warned you that people on the project were disregarding the protocols that you agreed to put in place, and I warned you that the project plan needed to be revised to reflect the fact that your primary subject is a living person. This situation should never have been allowed to progress to the point of endangering Wei Wuxian!”

Lan Qiren had continued to bristle, to Lan Wangji’s utter lack of surprise. He was well familiar with his uncle’s pride. Lan Qiren would never acknowledge that he was wrong. Even when he knew that it was true. Perhaps especially then.

However, for all that he did it in the poorest grace possible, by the end of the meeting he had effectively agreed to cede final decision-making authority regarding access to Wei Wuxian to Wen Qing, so long as she and Lan Wangji kept the rest of the researchers updated regularly on their progress.

So functionally, no particular change. Except that now they were the ones with the power to say no.

The look of relief on Lan Xichen’s face at that decision had almost made Lan Wangji regret some of the less-than-charitable thoughts that had been curdling in the back of his mind since even before the previous morning’s fiasco. He had no doubt that his brother would have tried to lay down the law to the other researchers, now that the gravity of the stakes was no longer an abstract “should” in his mind… but better to take that burden off his shoulders, so that he could focus on organization and scheduling without the added pressure.

Given what Nie Mingjue had grimly pulled them aside after the meeting to tell them, he was grateful that his brother was out of the direct line of access for another reason.

The place where Lan Wangji had paused on the stairs was something of a blind turn, at the edge of a steep climb that was effectively impassable without taking the old stairs. If anyone was coming up the path behind him, he would see them long before they saw him.

Only after several minutes passed with no sign of movement did the tension in his shoulders ease.

Not that he thought he would have been followed, necessarily. At least, not by the members of the project team. They were largely thoughtless and somewhat entitled rather than malicious – with Jin Zixun a notable exception. But given what Nie Mingjue had discovered…

Wen Qing had gone chalk white. “Someone broke into the lab last night?”

Nie Zonghui’s face had been grim. “Yes, Doctor. It looks like someone got their hands on a copy of the utility door key. They let themselves into the building, then went into the breaker room and shut down the power.”

Which would have released all the electronic locks in the building, as a fire safety feature. Including the lab door.

And the intruder had entered through the same utility door that Wen Qing had used to get Wei Wuxian out of the building, only a scant handful of hours earlier. “Was it a protestor?” Lan Wangji asked, more in hope than expectation.

Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao traded grim looks. “I have my doubts,” Nie Mingjue said flatly. “A sufficiently prepared protestor might think of cutting the power, but knowing the layout of the lab well enough to go straight to the breaker and hit just the right switches?”

“Not just that,” Meng Yao said fretfully. “Before they went in, they managed to shut down the security system. Including the cameras. And…” He grimaced, then squared his shoulders. “And then there’s the timing.”

Wen Qing’s lips tightened to a thin line. “I doubt it’s coincidence that this happened last night. When we only had a guard on the building, rather than at the lab door.”

Nie Mingjue nodded, short and sharp. “Long story short, if you ask me? This was professional. And whoever it was, they had up to date information on lab security.”

Ominous. “Su Minshan?” Lan Wangji asked, keeping his tone neutral.

“I doubt he was involved,” Nie Mingjue said. “Among other things, he’s not on the need-to-know list for security updates. And I’ve been keeping an eye on him.” His fingers drummed against his thigh. “That said? I wouldn’t be surprised if this has something to do with whoever got him those bullets.” He grimaced. “Or maybe I should say, I hope that’s the case. I’ve got one piece of shady business to track down, the last thing we need is two conspiracies bumping elbows.”

The words twisted like a sharp hook in his stomach. “Is Wei Wuxian in danger?” Lan Wangji asked bluntly.

Nie Mingjue’s cheeks puffed with a gusty sigh as he looked at Nie Zonghui and Meng Yao. “Right now, I don’t know enough to call that either way. He’s definitely the focal point of whatever’s going on – or more specifically, Yiling Laozu is.” He snorted. “The good news is, I doubt anyone actually is after Wei Wuxian. If only because no one’s going to believe the whole Yiling Laozu lives! business without damned convincing evidence, and there’s not actually much of that to be had outside of the camera footage – which we’ve got locked down – and actually encountering the man in person.”

“Ah.” Nie Zonghui nodded. “That’s why you’re not having us try to guard him this time.”

Nie Mingjue nodded. “Right now, the best way to protect him is to limit the number of people who can find him. Setting a guard would be counterproductive.”

Meng Yao worried at his lower lip. “Shouldn’t we at least know, though? If there really is someone on the inside, we need to be ready to respond quickly. Just in case things go wrong.”

Nie Zonghui chuckled. “If what you’ve told me about what he pulled off is true, then it’s probably not Wei Wuxian we need to worry about protecting… and I suspect he’ll come up with his own way of letting us know if there’s trouble.”

“Which could become its own problem,” Wen Qing noted.

Nie Mingjue had been smirking at Nie Zonghui’s words, but he sobered at that, nodding. “To be honest, I wouldn’t be so comfortable with this arrangement if we hadn’t had that fiasco yesterday. But now we know that Wei Wuxian not only is very capable of defending himself, but also that given the option, he’s willing to spook first and keep stabbing as a fall-back.” He shrugged. “Another reason I wanted him out of that lab. He can be lethal, so better to give him escape options so that he doesn’t have to be.”

Meng Yao sighed. “I suppose that makes sense,” he said, and winced. “And I suppose if there is an internal security problem, they’ll have already flagged me as a potential weak link.”

Nie Mingjue snorted. “That happened because Zixun is an ass, Professor Yao has turned convenient denial into an art form, and Xichen and Qiren were so determined to pretend that the situation was normal that they were rivaling Professor Yao in his own art. And all of them have a habit of forgetting the chain of command unless it works to their benefit. That said…” He grimaced. “You’re partially right.”

“Because with Wei Wuxian out of easy reach, the next step is to focus on the people who can find him,” Nie Zonghui noted.

“Which means you two need to be careful,” Nie Mingjue said bluntly to Wen Qing and Lan Wangji. “You in particular, Professor Lan.”

Lan Wangji nodded. It was, after all, self-evident. Anyone who did know about Wei Wuxian – as opposed to Yiling Laozu – would be aware that Lan Wangji had to be in contact with him, regularly, in order to continue the all-important language lessons. Which meant that following Lan Wangji would be the easiest way to discover Wei Wuxian’s new location.

Of course, in actuality he couldn’t lead them to Wei Wuxian, since his own home would be the one destination no stalker would question. But he would quickly give them away if he simply stayed in his home for hours on end, particularly given that he’d already established a pattern for spending most of his day with the man.

They’d brainstormed a few options for subterfuge on that point. At the time, he’d considered their precautions pessimistic, even verging on paranoid. Now… he fully intended to pull Nie Mingjue aside in private to see if they could refine those plans.

Although after hearing Wen Qing’s comments on how ably Wei Wuxian had followed her lead when crossing the campus, he had one thought of his own to add, which was why he’d quietly supplied himself with a campus map.

After all, one thing any observers would not anticipate was Wei Wuxian becoming actively involved in the subterfuge, when they saw him as a passive object.

And if riding on the flying sword was indeed a Thing, that would give them even more options. Even if he was honest enough to admit that he wanted it to be real mostly because flying on a sword.

Standing on the stairs leading to the historic monastery complex and his home, Lan Wangji felt his breath catch all over again.

Cultivation was real. Not just fantasies played out in novels and shows. Not just a discipline connected to a particular religio-philosophical system of thought, but real, with tangible, unbelievable effects.

Lan Wangji had so many questions.

What could real cultivators achieve? Was Wei Wuxian the norm, or exceptional? How had people with such abilities fit into the social structure of their society – had they been aloof, focused solely on the quest for immortality and remote from the secular world, or had they been significant players in the unending power struggles of the chaotic age in which they lived?

Lan Wangji strongly suspected the latter. Power was temptation, after all. Even if no cultivator had ever succumbed to the lure of using their abilities for temporal, secular gain – something he found extremely unlikely – it would not change the fact that no warlord with an eye to empire would ignore the possibility that one might. Or of persuading one to do so on his behalf. Like it or not, cultivators must have been involved in the messy web of politics and wars and betrayals.

But if that was the case, then where were they in the histories? There was the sage Zhuge Liang, from the Romance of the Three Kingdoms – and knowing what he now knew, Lan Wangji had to wonder now how much of the mythologizing and tall tales associated with the novel had in fact been nothing of the sort.

He could hear the strangled spluttering from his former literature professors at the very notion.

Even so, the question remained. Where were the cultivators in the great histories? The semi-historical legends?

For that matter, where were they now? Surely something like this couldn’t simply be hidden, especially considering the wars that had wracked China in the past century alone, the massive societal upheavals, the rise of social media. Urban fantasies about Masquerades and hidden supernatural societies aside, hiding anything like that was simply unsustainable.

And yet… it seemed equally impossible that something that could result in such abilities could simply be lost. So why was cultivation a thing of folklore and fiction now? What had happened?

So very many questions.

Questions he would not be asking any time soon. The moratorium on conducting research had to apply to him as well, after all. Him more than any other, in fact, given that he was now Wei Wuxian’s host as well as his language teacher. He of all people could not simply barrage the man with potentially invasive questions that Wei Wuxian might feel obligated to answer. Especially about something that, one way or another, had been a well-kept secret across centuries.

For that matter, Wei Wuxian would likely be seeking answers to some of those same questions himself, given he’d spent a millennium and a half frozen in ice.

And they had far more important things to address at the moment, not least of them being a proper explanation of the events of the past twenty four hours. No doubt Wei Wuxian had many questions waiting for answers.

And more than that… Nie Mingjue had given Lan Wangji and Wen Qing some pointers on how to spot – and evade – someone attempting to follow them. But the man had bluntly admitted that it could take years to develop that particular skill set to the point of truly being effective.

Wei Wuxian had lived in a time of war and constant intrigue. He likely had forgotten more things about strategy, stealth and evasion than Nie Mingjue had ever learned in the first place. Which meant that he was the one best suited to helping them plan how this could work.

And it was time – past time – that they let Wei Wuxian have his own say in the decisions being made on his behalf.

Which would take a great deal of effort, not only because of the language barrier that they were only slowly wearing down, but because in many cases Wei Wuxian simply lacked the context needed. But Wen Qing was right; the man needed – more importantly, had the right – to have a say in what was happening.

Which meant he would need some time to plan the best approach to that particular conversation, he reflected as he stepped into the Jingshi at last, closing the door with a soft exhale of relief. Normally Wen Yuan assisted with that, but given that Lan Wangji neither wished to discuss their plans over digital communications nor to burden the teenager with the secret of what they were doing before necessary…

Come to think of it, he also needed to revisit the pantry; when last he’d stocked his supplies, he’d planned on feeding two people, not three…

Still thinking, Lan Wangji stepped out the back door onto the covered walkway, and stopped short.

Oh.

When he’d left that morning, Wei Wuxian had still been asleep. Which was something of a relief; so far as Lan Wangji could tell, while in the lab Wei Wuxian had never done more than cat naps, interspersed with meditation. Which… might perhaps have been more restful than they’d realized, if the lore was accurate, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was an adequate substitute for sleep. And it was… gratifying, to know the man trusted Lan Wangji enough to allow himself to actually sleep in Lan Wangji’s home.

But he was awake now, sitting on the veranda and looking out at the late morning sunlight shining on the garden and making the water of the pond glow emerald green with reflected foliage and refracted light. He must have either showered or bathed already; his hair was damp and flowed loose down his back and shoulders and even pooled on the boards behind him, and he’d dressed himself in the spare clothing that Lan Wangji pulled from his own wardrobe for use until they could acquire more, now that they’d confirmed Wei Wuxian’s approximate size. He’d even draped a spare towel over his shoulders to keep the shirt dry as he slowly worked a comb – a strangely delicate thing of pale lavender jade, the grip carved in the shape of a lotus flower – through his long hair, gently teasing out any unevenness before it could knot or tangle.

Lan Wangji only realized he was staring when the ache in his lungs reminded him that he needed to breathe as well.

He was hardly unaware that Wei Wuxian was strikingly attractive, even beautiful. There was a reason why that first photograph had captured attention, as well as no shortage of hearts and imaginations, around the world, and launched a whole new subgenre of fiction in the process. He had not exactly been immune to the appeal; certain better-quality pieces had found their way onto his own shelves, after all.

But when Wei Wuxian had been Yiling Laozu, a figure untouchable beneath the weight of ice and ages, it had been a purely aesthetic sort of awareness. Even after he’d awakened… on some level, it had still felt utterly surreal; one might as well long after a dream, or… well, a fictional character in a novel.

But now, sitting on Lan Wangji’s veranda with the morning sun gleaming on long black hair, face relaxed and peaceful, he looked very, very real.

Then he glanced over his shoulder, silver eyes brightening in a dazzling grin of welcome, and Lan Wangji abruptly realized that he might be in trouble.

OMAKE:

WQ: I suggest letting Wei Wuxian stay at your house.
LWJ: Hm, has she forgotten I’m gay? Oh well, I’m sure it won’t be relevant.

LWJ: Oh no. I forgot that I’m gay.

NOTES:

(I almost managed to fit this in the end notes! …except that I only had about fifty characters of margin left, and unfortunately, the html code required to include italics and such also count towards the total. So close!)

Wei Wuxian: demonstrating the important skill of active listening despite not understanding a single word said.

People love snarking about the anachronistic potatoes in MDZS… but Wei Wuxian’s beloved chilies are also a New World addition to Chinese cuisine! So this particular Wei Wuxian has never encountered them before…

And even more fun, toilet paper is not an anachronism, because yes, there’s mention of using paper for wiping in China as early as the sixth century!

I thought about having Wen Qing’s confrontation scene take place with just Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen in attendance, which would be the politic and polite way of doing things. She promptly reminded me that politic and polite was how the situation happened in the first place, because politic and polite makes it easier for people to ignore what they don’t want to hear. Which, after all, is one of the themes of MDZS: willful blindness in favor of a more comfortable narrative enabling bad actors. So.

Regarding the Jingshi: since the novel never really describes the Jingshi and I don’t know that much about traditional house styles for Suzhou, I’m cheating a little and using pastelcheckereddreams’s tumblr post about the layout of the Jingshi in CQL as a baseline, with the assumption that it would also have been modified over the centuries. As would the entire complex; fifteen hundred years is a very long time for a living, breathing, actively inhabited area, and just because one generation is dedicated to keeping it in the old form, it doesn’t follow that all prior generations did so! (https://pastelcheckereddreams.tumblr.com/post/658720140457852928/the-untamed-locations-the-jingshi-静室-a-digital/amp)

Wei Wuxian scored fourth on the list of eligible young masters… in a setting where status and wealth come before anything else. Despite the fact that he has neither, and in fact is only an honorary gongzi in the first place. Yeah, he’s squee material.

And then he smiled. RIP, random university girls who were not ready for that.

I can’t help but be bemused by the fact that the Lan and the Wens are the only sects that seem to insist on making disciples from other sects wear their colors; there’s no mention of it in the Jin-held conference at Phoenix Mountain, for example. I mean, it makes sense; the lectures are specifically about sending students to gain “the proper attitude” specifically under Lan Qiren, and his definition of etiquette is “be a Lan.” And Wen Ruohan’s goal is subjugating the other sects, while Jin Guangshan actually benefited by having the sects be distinct and divided – and thus it makes sense that he would let them differentiate themselves.

Speaking of: technically, the Gusu Lan lectures shouldn’t have happened at all in this AU, because they aren’t the “Gusu Lan” lectures, they’re the Lan Qiren lectures – the novel is very explicit that they were developed and established specifically around Lan Qiren’s (suspect, if you ask me) reputation as a teacher. But I wanted to keep the backstory of Wei Wuxian having spent time at Cloud Recesses as a teenager, for Reasons, so… handwave!

Oh, and just a side note – Lotus Pier was explicitly not burned by the Wens in the novel. When Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng are sneaking back, after Zidian released them, we get this scene:

The gates of Lotus Pier were tightly shut. Outside, lights glowed brightly. Fragments of moonlight flowed along the crystalline water. Dozens of large lanterns in the shape of nine-petaled lotuses floated by the dock in silence. Everything was the same as before. Yet, it was because of how everything was the same as before that it tormented the heart. (ExR translation)

The only physical damage inflicted on Lotus Pier itself in the war that we know of is Wen Chao removing the lotus symbols.

So why is it canonically rebuilt by the time of Wei Wuxian’s resurrection? I’d say that’s meant to be evidence of Jiang Cheng’s insecurity. First, we get these lines when Wang Liangjiao is passing through Lotus Pier:

“Lotus Pier really is quite nice. It’s so big. It’s just that all of the houses are a bit old.” “All of the wood is black. The color is so ugly. It’s not bright enough.” “Madam Yu, you aren’t a good mistress at all. Don’t you know to decorate the place a bit? Next time, hang up some more red curtains. It’d only be prettier that way.” (ExR translation, bold added)

And then, when Wei Wuxian is looking around after the Second Siege, we get this:

The training field was two times larger. Each new building seemed to be taller than the previous, adorned with curving roof decor. It seemed grander than before and had more splendor. But, compared to the Lotus Pier of his memories, it had changed too much.

Wei WuXian felt a sense of loss from deep within. He didn’t know whether the old buildings from the past were blocked behind these impressive new buildings or if they were torn down already.

After all, they were indeed too old. (ExR translation, bold added)

My read is, that’s a deliberate echo. Everything about Wang Liangjiao is tacky and overdone and tasteless, and yet it’s implied that her catty commentary jabbed at Jiang Cheng so much that he ultimately rebuilt Lotus Pier because of it.

Chapter Text

Wen Yuan threw the door open before the second knock even had a chance to land.

Nie Mingjue chuckled. “Glad to be leaving this dump?” he asked with a knowing smirk.

Wen Yuan grinned sheepishly. “Yes,” he admitted. After all, there wasn’t much point in pretending he hadn’t been waiting right at the door from the moment he finished packing.

Granted, dump wasn’t really doing the dorm justice; all things being equal, it was a very nice suite, with a kitchen and a bathroom and a lovely view out towards Caiyi from the windows. If he had to live for two weeks as basically a hermit, he could think of worse places to be.

But it had definitely been a weird experience. He’d been so sure that he was going to get so much done… and to be fair, he really had. But he’d also had some moments where he sort of blinked and then realized that it was three hours later than he’d thought and he’d somehow gone from research to Wiki-walking to reading a webnovel that was just… objectively bad.

Not to mention the gaming binge he’d gone on that one evening that resulted in Jin Ling asking why he was up so late.

Jin Ling. Expressing concern without having his arm twisted or blood being involved. That was the point when Wen Yuan had admitted that he might have to be more deliberate in his stress management strategies.

Although, in his defense: that had been the night after the Flying Sword Incident, and his brain had been buzzing with cultivator and how could Director Lan let that happen and he’d known that Aunt Qing and Professor Lan and Nie Mingjue were planning to do something about it but he hadn’t known what and…

Yeah, things had been a little crazy.

“That all your stuff?” Nie Mingjue asked, nodding to the bags stacked by the door.

“Yeah, I think that’s everything,” Wen Yuan said, and hesitated. “Um, maybe I should take that one…”

Nie Mingjue had already grabbed the bag in question, eyes widening at the unexpected weight as he suddenly found himself adjusting his stance for better leverage. “Ancestors, kid, what did you put in this thing? Bricks?”

Wen Yuan rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, those are mostly my textbooks, so… pretty much.”

Nie Mingjue huffed, slinging the bag over his shoulder and then grimacing and adjusting it so no hardcover corners were digging into his back. “Pretty sure the packs we carried in Basic weren’t this heavy – and definitely not so pointy,” he said dryly, even as he reached down to grab another bag with his other hand. “And you schlepped all this up here from the bus stop?”

“Uncle Ning helped,” Wen Yuan admitted, hastily picking up the last two bags himself.

Nie Mingjue chuckled at that. “Okay, that I can believe, I’ve seen some of his photography kits,” he acknowledged, and then stepped back from the door, gesturing for Wen Yuan to go ahead of him.

A thrill went through Wen Yuan as he stepped out of the dorm – which was silly, since he’d made a point of getting out for walks and to do exercises whenever the campus was quiet, in the interests of not going completely stir crazy. And it wasn’t like things were actually going to change all that much, given everything that had been going on, much as he’d wanted to be more involved…

But still! Finally, things were happening!

Nie Mingjue cast a smirk over his shoulder as he took the lead. “Someone’s excited,” he noted, openly amused.

Wen Yuan flushed and hastily tried to correct his stride to something at least pretending to be properly mature and dignified, rather than bouncing like Lan Jingyi with an all-you-can-eat barbecue coupon in hand. “I am,” he admitted anyway. “I know I won’t be able to visit with Wei Wuxian like we’d planned,” and if he was mad about the stubborn blockheads on the project making that necessary, well, that was his business. “But it’ll be nice to at least be helping out at less of a distance.”

Nie Mingjue cast a sidelong look at him as they turned onto the path that led to one of the quieter sections of campus, towards one of the buildings that acted as a student clinic when classes were in session; Aunt Qing had brought Wen Yuan there with her a few times when he was younger, when she’d been working and there was no one to watch him. “And you’re not bitter about that at all,” the security chief said dryly.

Wen Yuan fought the impulse to look away, even as he felt the flush on his face heat up. Busted. “I’m mad at Professor Yao and Jin Zixun,” he said, carefully precise. “How can they do that? Get so caught up in what they want that they just… stomp all over everything?”

Truth be told, he was angry at Director Lan and Lan Xichen, too, but that was a different sort of angry, mixed up with disappointment and constantly sort of bumping into the way they’d both supported his studies with Professor Lan, Lan Qiren’s pride in his academic accomplishments and Lan Xichen’s willingness to adjust schedules to accommodate Wen Yuan and his friends when they came to visit. He wanted to get his own head sorted out before he tackled how he felt about their actions.

Then he did look away, because… Well. Honesty is important. “I know you and the others aren’t telling me where Wei Wuxian is now because you don’t want the rest of the project pressuring me into telling – and that was probably a good idea,” he admitted. He’d gotten a few “cultural sensitivity” requests right after the change that had been blatant fishing for information, and being honestly sure that he couldn’t give anything away by accident had been a small comfort.

Although Jin Zixun’s subsequent attempt to draw him into speculating “as pals” had been flat-out ridiculous. He’d met Jin Zixun. It had been downright satisfying to shut that down.

Though he was pretty glad that Nie Mingjue had made a point of keeping where he was staying on the down-low, too.

So yeah, he got why he couldn’t know where Wei Wuxian was staying, but… “I just… worry,” he concluded at last, a little awkwardly. Because he knew it was silly; Wei Wuxian was a cultivator, with actual real cultivation powers! And he trusted Aunt Qing and Lan Wangji and Nie Mingjue, really…

But Wei Wuxian had literally caught a bullet for him. And he was cheerful and funny and had treated Wen Yuan like someone worth listening to when they could barely communicate. How could he not worry that the man was doing okay?

Okay, yes, and it was kind of frustrating to be on the edges of something this big only to get shuffled to the side because he was a kid. Just a little.

And Nie Mingjue was giving him an odd look now, like he was reevaluating something. “So you knew you weren’t going to get to visit with the guy, and you kept up the quarantine anyway?”

Wen Yuan shrugged. “I mean… yes? I’ll be staying with Professor Lan, and he is working with Wei Wuxian. So anyone staying with him needs to follow quarantine rules too, or he won’t be able to do his job, right?”

Nie Mingjue’s huff was as much sardonic as it was amused. “So basically what you’re saying is that we need more teenagers on the project to raise the average maturity level,” he muttered, not quite quietly enough to actually keep Wen Yuan from hearing every word.

Wen Yuan snickered. Because, well, Nie Mingjue wasn’t entirely wrong. If nothing else, the average teenager was probably way more used to being told no than a bunch of big-name scientists…

But he could just picture how the guys would react. Lan Jingyi would flip out, and Ouyang Zizhen would be right there with him, screaming and running in circles probably. While Jin Ling would huff and puff and try to play it all cool and unimpressed and fool exactly nobody.

Oh man. He really, really hoped he could break the news to them in person, once the project was ready to go public with the big news.

But that reminded him of something much less amusing. He hesitated for a moment, but there wasn’t anyone nearby to overhear, so… “Have you found out anything? About the break-in?”

Nie Mingjue didn’t respond for a moment, and Wen Yuan was just bracing himself for the kid treatment when the big man sighed. “Hells, you’re the one who got shot at, you deserve to know. Problem is, there’s not much to know.”

Wen Yuan swallowed uncomfortably. He really didn’t like thinking about those chaotic minutes in the lab, or just how close he’d been to getting really hurt – maybe even killed. “You haven’t caught them?”

Nie Mingjue grimaced. “Unfortunately, I don’t have much to go on. Nothing’s happened since the break-in, and honestly? That worries me.”

Wen Yuan’s heart sank. “But… shouldn’t that be a good thing? That nothing’s happened?”

The security chief gave him a sidelong look, a corner of his mouth quirking upward in a smile that didn’t look amused at all. “Problem is, kid? Nothing’s happened that we know of. No news is only good news if you can reasonably expect to hear the bad news. As things stand? We know someone is trying to meddle. But they covered their tracks well, so we don’t know who or why. Which means that unless they slip up, the ball’s in their court; not much we can do but wait and watch for the next move. And hope we’re not missing something.”

Well, that was moderately terrifying, and Wen Yuan had a sneaking suspicion that he was never going to read spy novels in quite the same way ever again. “What about Su Minshan? You fired him, right?”

“Fired and handed off to the police,” Nie Mingjue confirmed. “Should have done that way sooner, but I was hoping to find out where the bullets came from.” He made a face. “Unfortunately, once it finally sank in just how deep in it he was for waving an illegal lethal weapon around, he clammed up hard. I don’t have the power to actually arrest someone, so.”

Wen Yuan hesitated. “Weren’t you worried about him telling people? About… you know.” He wasn’t sure what the plan was for telling the world that Yiling Laozu is alive – he wasn’t even sure there was a plan – but he was pretty sure having the word come from the guy who had a horror movie flip-out and started shooting at people was not the way to do it.

“Meng Yao’s pretty sure he won’t,” Nie Mingjue said. “He’s helping coordinate the investigation for now; he’s way better at the playing-nice, cloak-and-dagger nonsense than I am.” He shrugged. “Su Minshan is all tough-guy ego; he knows that unless he can cough up evidence, talking about the famously frozen guy coming to life is just going to make him sound crazy. Not to mention he’d have to cop to freaking out.”

Wen Yuan bit his lip. He wasn’t sure he liked the thought of no one would believe him anyway about something that was true, even if they’d be in trouble if someone did believe him. But also… “Are we sure no one would believe him? Because… that break-in doesn’t make sense unless someone did know.”

“Hard to tell,” Nie Mingjue admitted. “My guess is that word hasn’t gotten out yet; it’s not exactly the sort of thing people would keep quiet about. But whoever passed the information about the security change along…” He shook his head. “I’ll be honest, kid – I’d rather you weren’t in the middle of this.”

“I sort of wish I weren’t, either,” Wen Yuan admitted softly.

Which wasn’t something he could admit to Professor Lan or Aunt Qing. If they got even a hint of something that looked like second thoughts, they’d pack him up and make him go home!

But he’d gotten to know the security chief over the past two weeks. Nie Mingjue understood the difference between knowing a situation was scary and wishing it weren’t, and not wanting to be involved.

For that matter, he thought Wei Wuxian would probably understand the difference, too.

Nie Mingjue gave him a knowing sort of nod as they approached the clinic door. “Well, the fact is you are in the middle of this, and have been from the minute everything went crazy,” he said bluntly. “Which is part of why I’m backing the plan for you to stay with Lan Wangji. Frankly, it’s probably the safest place for you at the moment.”

Wen Yuan blinked. “Did you assign him extra security or something?” he asked, glad his voice came out steady without betraying the weird little twist in his gut. Because his head knew that Professor Lan wasn’t invincible, but the man had always felt like he was somehow beyond the reach of anything bad. Logically he knew otherwise, but…

Nie Mingjue just grinned like he knew a secret. “You’re about to find out. And he had better have a camera ready when you do. You got everything you’ll need for the day in that?” he asked, nodding to the smaller daypack on Wen Yuan’s back.

“…Yeeeees…?” Wen Yuan answered, eyeing the man suspiciously. That camera comment was ominous.

Nie Mingjue deftly plucked the other bags from his hands. “Then I’ll drop the rest of this off at the Jingshi. You head on in; the Doc and Professor Lan will go over the plan with you.” Then he strode back up the path again, not lingering for Wen Yuan to press him on what that was supposed to mean.

Wen Yuan hesitated for a minute, then sighed, shook himself, and opened the clinic door. “The plan” probably meant logistics and scheduling, right? He wasn’t sure why they’d do that at the clinic rather than an office or something, but maybe Aunt Qing wanted to do a medical check-in or something.

The front office of the clinic was empty; this particular branch didn’t get used during summer break, since most of the students were away. But the lights were on, and he could hear familiar voices coming from one of the exam rooms, the door standing open a few centimeters.

When the front door closed behind him, the voices paused. “A’Yuan?” Aunt Qing called.

Wen Yuan gripped the strap of his backpack and grinned, his earlier excitement bubbling up again. “It’s me!” he confirmed.

Someone made a startled exclamation, and he blinked. That didn’t sound like Professor Lan or Aunt Qing, but he couldn’t imagine who else would even be there.

“Come on back,” Aunt Qing called, and he blinked, because she sounded like she was suppressing a laugh. Curious now, Wen Yuan headed for the open exam room…

And stopped short, jaw dropping.

Wei Wuxian grinned brightly, waving enthusiastically from where he was perched on the edge of the exam bed. “A’Yuan! Hello!”

Wen Yuan blinked. Blinked again.

Wei Wuxian wasn’t wearing the beautiful ancient robes he’d had in the ice. Instead, he was wearing a soft evening blue button-up that Wen Yuan was quite sure he’d seen Professor Lan wear, except that rather than buttoned up properly he’d left it open over a black shirt, with white linen slacks that definitely were Professor Lan’s, the cuffs rolled up to accommodate the worn boots. And with his hair tied back in a loose, messy bun—

Wait. That wasn’t loose or messy at all – it just looked that way because there was over a meter of hair bound up in that thing. Just, no one was used to seeing hair that long, so it looked like a more normal sort of long hair wrapped up in a sloppy, careless twist.

Dressed like that, with his long hair hidden… Wei Wuxian could honestly pass for just another graduate student. Okay, maybe a grad student out of a movie where they picked the prettiest people possible as actors, and the long hair would probably have Jingyi making awkward comments about confidence in manliness, because his foot had a bad habit of landing in his mouth. But Wei Wuxian definitely didn’t look like a magical cultivator who’d been frozen in ice for a thousand and a half years.

Which, yeah, had been the point of getting him new clothes… Wen Yuan just hadn’t really pictured the results before.

The bright sunny grin was the same, though… and he looked distinctly amused. Probably because Wen Yuan was still gaping.

Which. Shaking himself, Wen Yuan managed to look away and turn instead to Professor Lan, who was standing patiently to one side of the room. “Um… what’s going on?”

Professor Lan wasn’t smiling… but Aunt Qing was definitely smirking, and now he understood that comment about cameras. Augh.

“We will explain,” the professor said.

“That went well,” Wen Qing murmured, watching as Wei Wuxian and Wen Yuan bent their heads together over the print-out of Wei Wuxian’s medical report, slowly working through the language. Fortunately she’d made a point of teaching Wen Yuan the art of understanding such things – one of those valuable life skills that so few people ever were able to acquire.

“Mn.” Lan Wangji was watching them as well, a softness in his eyes that she could only pick out from his usual stony expression after years of exposure. After a minute, however, he turned to look at her. “The test results?”

“We lucked out,” she answered bluntly. Technically, this was a very grey area with regards to medical confidentiality, but Lan Wangji was currently responsible for Wei Wuxian’s basic needs, so he did need to know. “He doesn’t seem to have any allergies or dietary issues outside of lactose intolerance – and we expected that one.” It was still far more common than not in China, after all.

They’d also been fortunate in that Wei Wuxian had already been aware, in a practical sense, that there were foods that certain individuals needed to avoid. The medical system of his time had framed it as a kind of yin-yang incompatibility, but once he’d grasped enough of the language for Lan Wangji to broach the conversation – easier, now that Wei Wuxian was out of the lab and sharing space with the man – he’d been fascinated by the idea of being able to test for such conditions, rather than discovering them by chance.

He actually seemed fascinated by their medical system in general; witness the look of intent interest on his face as Wen Yuan talked him through the medical jargon of the forms. Which did make sense. Leaving aside the marks of physical trauma that he had clearly experienced personally, Nie Mingjue and Lan Wangji were both certain that he was a combat veteran. He would have seen people injured and dying. It wasn’t hard to see why new treatment methods would grab his attention.

Of course, that line of thought led to an entirely different set of problems.

Something in her expression must have given away her train of thought, because Lan Wangji studied her thoughtfully for a moment, then prompted, “The bad news?”

Wen Qing huffed. “Modern medicine is not exactly aligned with someone who can heal his own injuries by sitting and not-thinking about them.”

They’d discovered that little aspect of Wei Wuxian’s abilities early in his stay with Lan Wangji, when he’d accidentally burned his hand on the stovetop while Lan Wangji was demonstrating the use of it in a cooking lesson. Granted, the burn had been relatively minor – second degree, if that, from Lan Wangji’s description. Except that Wen Qing had only that description to go by, because the burn had been healed and gone in just a few hours.

As a trained surgeon, Wen Qing had spent some time researching the myriad of ways that a patient’s recovery could be helped or hindered. And meditation’s effects on stress levels was well-documented, as were the beneficial effects of a high overall level of fitness.

But healing even a minor burn in the span of just a couple hours? That was…

Well. Superhuman, so to speak.

Which… as a medical researcher, it was beyond exciting. She knew that scientists around the world were revisiting historic folk treatments and cures, puzzling out what was ultimately placebo effect and what had a genuine underlying physiological basis. Now, apparently, they would have to completely revisit the entire concept of qi and its potential effects.

At her request, Lan Wangji had sent her a selection of references regarding ancient medical and healing lore. Which had been substantial, because apparently nearly all known “magical” practices centered on health and healing in one way or another. Which made sense, really, she’d just never really thought about it in those terms before.

She was standing on the edge of an entire world of medicine and medical treatment that she hadn’t even dreamed could actually be real only two weeks ago. It was thrilling.

Although she had no intentions of going anywhere near Daoist alchemy. Because the importance given to refined cinnabar aka freaking mercury was flat out hair-raising. She seriously had to wonder how many of the legends of so-called qi deviations stemmed from mercury poisoning. There certainly was a suspicious similarity to the symptoms.

And that was the problem. This whole concept was thrilling… from the point of view of a medical researcher. As Wei Wuxian’s de facto doctor? She was absolutely terrified.

Because what if qi deviations weren’t the result of mercury? What other hazards were associated with cultivation?

Even just looking at the positives: yes, he healed quickly and seemed hardier than average. To say nothing of surviving the whole frozen in ice business. But what was the cost of healing so quickly? What were the limits? How much risk was there of something going wrong from accelerating the healing process like that?

Not to mention all the other questions it raised. Given that he had an abnormal physiological response to injury – one that was at least somewhat under conscious control! – then what about his immune responses? Could she even trust the results of her allergy tests, if Wei Wuxian was capable of just… mind-over-mattering his way past them? And what would happen if for some reason he ended up in a situation where suddenly he couldn’t just override his own physiology, if he were unconscious or something?

And that led into yet another set of complications. According to Lan Wangji, who had asked on her behalf, Wei Wuxian had claimed that he almost never got sick. Was that related to his cultivation? If it was, would there be circumstances outside of the typical range of stressors that could hamper that resistance? And if so, would his baseline, unsupplemented immune system be stronger than normal… or weaker than average, because illnesses never actually got far enough to trigger it? Would vaccines even work on a system like that?

And what about diseases that primarily killed healthy young adults, because it was the overreaction of the immune system that actually killed? Could he simply override a cytokine storm? Or would he need to know what the reaction was to intervene effectively?

It was enough to make her head hurt.

And then there were all the other questions. Were cultivators vulnerable to certain ailments over others? Were there treatments that they had access to that others couldn’t benefit from? Diagnosis methods?

Of course, those questions led back to the medical research side of things, which had its own complications. Not least of which…

She looked at Lan Wangji. “How did your meeting with the director go?”

“Mn.”

Well. That was a singularly unhelpful response.

Fortunately, Lan Wangji seemed to recognize that he had been uncommunicative even by his standards. After a moment, he clarified. “Uncle was unimpressed by the quality of the revised research proposals thus far.”

Wen Qing didn’t quite suppress her snort. She’d bet. Anyone trying to submit a proposal with only two weeks to revise at the maximum was trying to get away with superficial tweaking, not addressing the complete upheaval of the existing project plans.

But that Lan Qiren was also unimpressed, enough so to express it in the update meeting… that was promising. It meant he’d worked past the denial enough to actually think like a proper scholar again. And that he’d finally availed himself of the reference materials she’d provided.

Lan Wangji added. “He has requested an updated timeline for the vaccinations.”

Wen Qing sighed to herself. That, she’d expected. Once the limitations of what they could legally research when Wei Wuxian was unable to give valid consent had been spelled out, even the project members who had been taking her demand for quarantine seriously had largely given up on it; they hadn’t seen the point when in-depth research was off the table for the time being. But that, of course, raised the looming question of when they could begin research, and how to judge at what point Wei Wuxian could agree to it. For now, they had settled on the vaccinations as a substitute time frame, since it would take at least a month or two of the regimen she’d planned before Wen Qing would feel safe fully lifting the quarantine requirements.

However.

“That will depend on you,” she told Lan Wangji.

He looked at her, face the usual expressionless granite.

Wen Qing looked back at Wei Wuxian. He looked like all of his attention was on Wen Yuan, but she knew he was keeping track of the two of them as well, and listening as closely as he could.

Which was more than most would expect; his vocabulary had grown by leaps and bounds since even a week ago. But his conversational skills, particularly listening comprehension, had lagged somewhat, given the handicap of a teacher who never used four words when one plus context would do. It was obvious that following Wen Yuan’s faster, more casual speech was demanding a great deal of his concentration.

So she didn’t bother lowering her voice; the only thing that would accomplish would be to signal that she was saying something she didn’t want overheard.

And frankly, if Wei Wuxian happened to pick up enough of the conversation to begin pushing for answers himself? Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. They couldn’t stall the explanation forever, much as Lan Wangji seemed to be trying.

“If you think I’m going to start him on a vaccination program – vaccines that are based on making the immune system work harder – when he still has a massive emotional shock hanging like the sword of Damocles over his head? Think again,” she said bluntly. “That is going to be a huge stressor and I want him well past it before we even think about stressing his immune system intentionally.”

All the more so, now that she knew that his abilities as a cultivator had ramifications for his physical health. She didn’t know how the ability to mind-over-matter injuries away might mean for cases of mental and emotional stress, but she was willing to bet that the outcome would not be a good one.

Lan Wangji’s lips pursed ever so slightly, his gaze just a hint off as though he was looking more towards her ear than her eyes. All tells she associated with him knowing that someone had a point but mulishly not wanting to grant it. “Wen Yuan just joined us.”

She huffed. Yes, part of the reasoning for having Wen Yuan stay with them in the first place was that her young cousin would be one more social bond for support when the full extent of Wei Wuxian’s dislocation sank in. But it wasn’t actually an answer to her question, and Lan Wangji knew that perfectly well. “He’s here now,” she countered. “Which means it’s time to make some serious decisions, Lan Wangji. That is not a conversation you want to walk into flat-footed.”

Lan Wangji didn’t respond.

Wen Qing shook her head at him. On the one hand, it was nice to know that she rated as a close enough acquaintance for him to be sulky at her. That didn’t make it helpful.

Not that she blamed him for not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. She was a doctor, she knew how hard it was to bring devastation down on someone, even as just the messenger. But avoiding the problem only delayed it. Not to mention…

“Professor Lan,” she said, letting a hint of iron into her tone, “the man is not stupid. He knows we’re not telling him something important. Thus far he’s granted us the benefit of the doubt, but that doesn’t stop him from drawing his own conclusions. Conclusions we can neither predict nor know how he’ll act on them, because he’s coming from a very different context and missing incredibly important information. Nor do we know how long his patience will last. How long do we have before he decides he needs to go looking for answers on his own? And how long do you think this illusion is going to last once he does?”

Lan Wangji looked away. It wasn’t as obvious as a wince, but it was clear he’d yielded the point. After all, all it would take to bring everything tumbling down would be Wei Wuxian deciding to go for a stroll down the mountain to Caiyi. Something he was perfectly capable of doing at any time, given that they were flat-out relying on his ability to get around the campus unnoticed at the moment.

She gentled her tone just a little. “Look, even if he doesn’t actively go looking, it’s going to come out, one way or another. It might take a while to figure out – it’s been over a thousand years isn’t something that you automatically jump to. But eventually he is going to find the rotted ax handle. He’s going to pick up the wrong book or see a map and that will be it. Do you really want him to get hit with that unexpectedly and alone, or in a controlled situation where he has support and knows that at least we’re being honest?”

The last one hit home; she could see it in how his shoulders dropped slightly. “…Let Wen Yuan settle first,” he said. “Then I will explain.”

Well. That was probably the best she could ask.

“He’s really going to be staying with us?” Wen Yuan blurted as soon as they were safely within the secluded area around the historic complex.

Lan Wangji was impressed the boy had contained himself as long as he had. He’d been practically vibrating out of his skin ever since they’d parted ways with Wei Wuxian at the door of the clinic and set out across the campus.

“If you have concerns, alternative arrangements can be made,” he said. After all, the need to keep Wei Wuxian’s location secret meant that Wen Yuan had not been given a chance to offer his own opinion on the change in plans.

Somehow, he didn’t think the boy had any objections. Particularly given the extremely teenage adults are so dumb sometimes look that Wen Yuan didn’t quite succeed in hiding.

Followed by a moment of hesitation, as Wen Yuan chewed his lip nervously. “I mean… I’m mostly worried about me,” he admitted. “You’re hiding where he is for a lot of really important reasons. What if I mess up and give it away?”

Ah. A valid concern, and somehow he was not surprised that that would be the first thing on Wen Yuan’s mind. “I have faith in your judgment and discretion,” he said, and gave the boy a steady stare. “But do not forget to think of yourself. If you feel unsafe at any time, speak.”

After all, the situation was still very precarious, for all that whoever had broken into the lab had made no obvious moves since. In all honesty, Lan Wangji thought he would prefer it if they had. At least then he would know. As matters stood, he had no way of knowing if nothing had happened, or if they simply hadn’t noticed it.

Still. He was fairly certain that at least their subterfuge regarding Wei Wuxian’s new lodgings had remained effective.

It helped that improbability lent its own kind of anonymity. No one expected to see the Yiling Laozu in a living, breathing, bright-eyed man strolling across the campus. Even those who knew about his revival would never expect him to be out and about, let alone on his own and unescorted. If only because many of them still defaulted to thinking of him as an inanimate object out of habit.

The system was not without risks. But in modern clothes, with his hair tied back to disguise its length, Wei Wuxian could easily pass for just another student staying on campus for summer classes or work. And while Yiling Laozu’s face was famous, there was a world of difference between the slack, sleeping face within the ice and the open-eyed, active features of a man who was awake and moving. Assuming anyone saw him in the first place; thus far, he’d simply disappeared after leaving the Jingshi, to meet Lan Wangji at either the clinic or a meditation hall in one of the outer parts of the historic complex that Lan Qiren had reserved for their use. Maintaining the illusion that Wei Wuxian was housed elsewhere on campus, rather than living with Lan Wangji in his own home.

If nothing else, the arrangement at least ensured that no one would go crazy from being cooped up in a confined space for days at a time.

Still, Lan Wangji couldn’t help feeling uneasy; he was well aware that he was the weak point in their little shell game. If whoever arranged the break-in did know that Wei Wuxian was alive, then Lan Wangji was the obvious lead to find where they’d hidden him. They wouldn’t even need to do something so obvious as attempting to follow him; all it would take was someone breaking into the Jingshi while he was away, and they would quickly figure out that Wei Wuxian was staying there.

He’d done his best to explain his concerns to Wei Wuxian; the man deserved to know what was going on and why they were being so secretive. It had taken some time, especially since Wei Wuxian was clearly puzzled about why there would be such a fuss around him in the first place.

Wen Qing was right; Wei Wuxian not only deserved but needed to know what had happened to him. Lan Wangji just hadn’t figured out how to approach him about it yet.

But then, when Lan Wangji had mentioned his concerns about the Jingshi being broken into, Wei Wuxian had offered to set wards on the building.

Wards. Nie Mingjue had sputtered like cold water hitting the bottom of an over-heated dry kettle.

Lan Wangji had to admit that his own thoughts hadn’t been much more coherent than that, when Wei Wuxian had offered to let him watch as the man created the wards. Watching Wei Wuxian set intricately inked paper in various locations had not been all that different from various ceremonies he’d watched, although with significantly less ceremony involved…

Then they’d flared, red light limning every surface and curve and corner in a shimmering, half-seen veil before the light didn’t so much fade as sink into wood and plaster and stone, gone from sight but ready to surge forth again at the first hint of danger.

No, he did not dispute Nie Mingjue’s sputtering in the least. After that display, he’d gone to write up his formal notes only to realize he’d just spent thirty minutes staring at a blank page, at a loss for how to even begin to articulate what he’d witnessed.

The floating sword had been shocking, but… isolated. This…

He’d just watched an expert in an art that he hadn’t thought real, working with the same calm, confident focus of a master builder or gardener, or maybe a painter or musician. Somehow, it was the sheer normality with which Wei Wuxian had approached the entire process that had finally driven the reality of it home.

So his home was perhaps not so unprotected as it seemed. Of course, the wards alone would betray them… but anyone who set them off would be caught in place.

Lan Wangji knew that Nie Mingjue was biting back all the questions about those wards. And seriously considering deputizing Wei Wuxian the moment he had the opportunity. But for now… well. It was, at least, another layer of security. All the more important, to Lan Wangji’s mind, now that Wen Yuan had joined them.

The boy himself had slung his backpack around to hang from one shoulder as he rummaged through the contents, almost tripping on the uneven stones of the path as they moved into the wooded area. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he hesitated, looking at Lan Wangji. “So, um… I brought a present for him, sort of? If you think it’s okay.” Pulling out a slim volume, he handed it to Lan Wangji.

Accepting it, Lan Wangji thumbed through the pages thoughtfully. Each spread of pages was a paired set; classical poetry in its original form on one page, and the same poem translated into the modern vernacular on the facing page. A learning tool for the student of classical literature. Closing the book, he looked at Wen Yuan.

The boy shrugged slightly. “I know poetry isn’t the same as regular speech, and writing isn’t talking… but you mentioned that one problem was just exposing him to enough stuff generally. I thought, this would be enough for him to start working through the patterns in the language, the way things have changed.” He hesitated. “I found some other books, too, but those will have to wait until after… you know. We explain everything.”

True enough, and a good thought. Although. “Li Bai?”

Wen Yuan tilted his head. “He’s from the Tang Dynasty, so Wei Wuxian wouldn’t know him. Which… I mean, maybe it would be better to do this with something he already knows, but he’d probably appreciate something new to read.” He grinned. “And I thought he’d like the sense of humor.”

True. Wei Wuxian had already been familiar with most of the works from the disunited period that Lan Wangji had offered, which led Lan Wangji to suspect that Wei Wuxian had lived in the late part of that era, possibly during the chaotic last decades that had seen the collapse of the Northern Wei, the betrayals of Hou Jing, the splintering of the Liang dynasty, and ultimately the rise of the Sui and the reunification of China. Something new to read would undoubtedly be welcome; the man did not strike Lan Wangji as the sort to particularly enjoy going over the same material again and again. 

Lan Wangji might be sulking a little at the fact that it hadn’t occurred to him that this meant he’d had the opportunity to introduce the works of one of China’s most beloved poets to Wei Wuxian himself.

And while Li Bai had lived in the time of the Tang, his determinedly apolitical stance meant that most of his best poetry, the works that would be selected for a book like this, wouldn’t have much in the way of contemporary references to confuse the man. And Wen Yuan was absolutely correct that Wei Wuxian would love the humorous romanticism of Li Bai.

However. “How will you handle the annotations?” Li Bai might have been apolitical, but any commentary or explanation of his writing would naturally seek to ground it in the time and place of the writing.

Wen Yuan nodded to the book. “That’s why I picked that one; all the notes and things are in the back.”

Ah. Yes. Now he remembered – he’d specifically avoided that particular publisher when selecting texts for his students for that same reason, since he considered the annotations as important as the text itself for a modern learner. But for Wei Wuxian…

“I sort of figured that by the time we got to that part… well, he’d know by then,” Wen Yuan concluded. “So I thought it’d be okay.”

Lan Wangji narrowed his eyes slightly, wondering if he was hearing Wen Qing’s hand in that comment.

…Not that it wasn’t true.

Instead, Wen Yuan hesitated, looking suddenly uncertain. “I mean… as long as you think that’s okay?” he said tentatively. “I just thought… it might be fun to have an actual project to work on with him.”

Lan Wangji considered that, and nodded. A dedicated project, something that they could make tangible progress on over time, would make an excellent counter to the slow and frequently frustrating process of language learning. And it would be good for Wen Yuan to have something specific that he could do with Wei Wuxian. Nodding, Lan Wangji passed the book back—

And paused suddenly as they rounded another turn, now well out of sight from the historic complex, and energy rippled at the base of his spine.

He really had no better way to describe it, other than perhaps what someone with synesthesia might call the texture of laughter, or perhaps of a playful kitten deciding whether or not to pounce a tempting tail.

Very deliberately, he paused his steps, bracing himself, and therefore did not stagger at suddenly supporting the weight of another grown man as an arm was slung over his shoulder. “Hi!” Wei Wuxian said brightly.

Wen Yuan yelped, half-jumping into the air as he whirled about to stare wide-eyed at Wei Wuxian. The man simply laughed, wrinkling his nose playfully as the boy rallied himself and glared half-heartedly, subtly shaking his shoulders as if trying to dislodge the memory of being doused by cold water.

A movement Lan Wangji noted with interest, since it confirmed something he’d suspected for a while: that strange storm-and-sunlight sensation he sometimes noticed when Wei Wuxian approached was not his imagination. Not at all. And from the way that Wei Wuxian was also watching Wen Yuan’s reaction… he had the feeling that it was entirely deliberate.

He wondered what it meant.

Of course, it was entirely possible that it was simply a kind of courtesy warning before the man pounced on someone who might react badly to a surprise. If so, Lan Wangji appreciated the consideration.

Huffing internally, he shrugged the shoulder Wei Wuxian was leaning on, and tried not to let the momentary disappointment show when the man laughed brightly and let go, stepping around to face them properly in a swirl of black – he’d let his hair out to the usual high tail, now that they were out of public sight. Understandable; having the weight of it compressed into a single knot likely threw his balance off in subtle ways. And might well cause headaches if left too long.

Lan Wangji resolutely kept his hands relaxed at his sides and did not wonder what it would feel like if he were to reach out and catch that hair as it streamed past.

For the most part, he thought he was handling his extremely ill-timed and highly inappropriate crush… well enough, at least. Largely by doing everything in his power to pretend that it didn’t exist, or at least to restrict it to his thoughts only. The last thing he ever wanted was for Wei Wuxian to feel pressured to reciprocate Lan Wangji’s regard. Especially given that the man might well feel that he needed to do so, if only for added safety in an uncertain situation where he had no genuinely secure allies.

Lan Wangji thought he had succeeded well enough; at the very least, he hadn’t seen any signs that Wei Wuxian felt any discomfort in his presence. And the man’s tendency towards physical contact, leaning on Lan Wangji’s shoulders to look at something or poking him to get his attention, seemed to spring naturally from a naturally playful, mischievous, tactile temperament, rather than a forced performance.

And if Lan Wangji secretly enjoyed that tendency more than he should… occasional irritating jokes from coworkers aside, he was not actually made from jade.

Evidenced by the fact that he was, in fact, rather hungry at the moment… and by the utterly unsubtle way that Wei Wuxian was eyeing the bag in his hand, he was not the only one.

Amused, he transferred the bag to his other hand – deliberately ignoring the disappointed pout that he hadn’t opened it instead – and then began walking again. After a few steps, however, he turned away from the trail leading to the Jingshi and onto one of the side paths.

Wen Yuan made a startled noise, hurrying to catch up after his surprise at the change in direction made him hesitate and fall behind. “Where are we… oh. Doesn’t this go to…?”

“Mn. The weather is good,” Lan Wangji said, keeping one eye on Wei Wuxian as the man strolled alongside them, face open and interested as he looked around, tilting his head slightly as the soft sound of flowing water began to grow louder.

He suspected that Wei Wuxian had explored the wider campus quite extensively at this point, taking advantage of the night hours when most people were asleep; he had noticed that, once out of the lab, the cultivator was still awake and active when Lan Wangji sought his bed, and given how late Wei Wuxian slept in the morning, Lan Wangji suspected that the man stayed up until the early hours of the morning. He doubted that Wei Wuxian stayed in the Jingshi the entire time.

But he also suspected those explorations were largely focused on the more dense areas of the main campus, with more to observe – not to mention that the man likely was also scouting ways to move about unnoticed, given the current arrangement. He was guessing that Wei Wuxian had spent less time exploring the wooded areas around the Jingshi, if only because they were less alien to him.

From the soft exclamation as the path turned again and then wound downwards to reveal the Cold Springs, Lan Wangji was fairly certain that at the very least, this was new to his guest.

Lan Wangji paused at the top of the slope, both to let Wei Wuxian take in the sight and to appreciate it himself. The Cold Springs had always been one of his favorite places in the historic complex. While the complex itself was ancient, heavy with history, the natural spring at the base of the dark stone cliff, bright sunlight catching on dark water and surrounded by the rich greenery of the woods, transcended simple history and stretched into timelessness. There was a deep quiet to the pools as well, one that ran far deeper than the rustling leaves and murmur of running water where the pools fed the small streams that ran through the woods.

A soft splish – and then Wei Wuxian yelped, pulling his hand out of the water and shaking it fiercely, sending water droplets flying to leave little circular ripples spreading across the pool. “It is cold!” he exclaimed, turning a dismayed look at Lan Wangji as if this was some personal betrayal.

Lan Wangji kept his face deliberately blank, even as Wen Yuan snickered at the theatrics. “They are the Cold Springs,” he replied.

Wei Wuxian huffed, shaking a finger at him. “You are much cruel!” he said reprovingly.

So, not much, Lan Wangji was about to reflexively correct, before his thoughts were sidetracked when Wen Yuan nodded. “He really is,” the boy said sagely, and then smiled innocently at Lan Wangji when he gave Wen Yuan a look.

Wei Wuxian laughed, standing up from the edge of the pool. Tucking his hands behind his back, he began strolling along the edge of the spring, looking around as he walked.

Lan Wangji watched the cultivator out of the corner of his eye as he began laying out the luncheon he had packed that morning next to one of the stone benches placed discretely around the springs for visitors. On the surface, Wei Wuxian was walking casually, taking in the scenic surroundings with what appeared to be genuine enjoyment. But at the same time, there was something thoughtful in the way he moved around the spring, studying the water with an intensity at odds with the nonchalance of his movements.

It made him wonder. He knew from the old records that, not unlike the Jingshi, the Cold Springs had once been a place for the monks of Cloud Recesses to meditate. Would cultivators have done the same? Certainly the folklore surrounding the concept of cultivation emphasized the importance of discipline and deep meditation, and seeking out places of spiritual power.

According to geologists, the water of the springs would have fallen as rain and snowmelt on the mountain thousands of years earlier, trickling down through cracks in the stone before reaching the deep underground stream that eventually seeped forth again here. It was not hard at all to picture such a place as one of power as well as tranquility.

Not hard, but disconcerting – thinking about a place he had imagined from his youth as one of spiritual power, and realizing that it might actually be so.

Perhaps he could ask – later, when asking questions out of his own curiosity would be appropriate, rather than an abuse of privileged access. At the very least, he should wait until he knew that Wei Wuxian would feel secure in refusing to answer; the simple fact that cultivation had been consigned to folklore and fantasies strongly suggested that it had been a secret art, practiced by a select few.

For now… “Wei Wuxian,” Lan Wangji called. The lunch he’d prepared was laid out, and Wen Yuan was eyeing the spread with the hungry eyes of a perpetually ravenous teenager who was too well-raised to simply dig in without permission. It was time to eat.

While Lan Wangji had been distracted by his thoughts, Wei Wuxian had made his way over to the far side of the spring and was studying the cliff face, occasionally turning to look out over the trees to the peak of the neighboring mountain, dark against the bright blue of the summer sky. He looked… puzzled, with a subtle furrow between his brows as he studied the scenery. When Lan Wangji called, Wei Wuxian startled, blinking across the pool at them as he gathered his own thoughts from wherever they’d wandered.

He looked at the pool separating them. Grinned.

Then he stepped straight forward, onto the water. And proceeded to simply walk across, little ripples spreading across the surface with each footfall.

Wen Yuan was spluttering, having inhaled at exactly the wrong moment. Lan Wangji simply watched Wei Wuxian, allowing the boy a chance to recover his dignity… and also taking in this newest discovery. He had wondered how many of the stories of a cultivator’s powers were actually truth; apparently walking on water, at least, was.

He hadn’t yet dared ask if the xianxia classic of flying on a sword was actually possible in reality, but he was beginning to suspect the answer was yes.

It also hadn’t slipped his notice that each new aspect of what Wei Wuxian could do was being revealed quite intentionally, with Wei Wuxian deliberately choosing moments when it would be least expected. It could easily be mistaken for showing off, and that was undoubtedly part of his motive given that mischievous grin…

But Lan Wangji had no doubt that it was also selective, with Wei Wuxian carefully calculating the specifics of where, when, and what exactly he showed them. Oh, he absolutely enjoyed their dumbstruck reactions – the man was an irrepressible mischief-maker. But every dropped jaw and wide-eyed stare was also information.

He wondered how much Wei Wuxian had learned from those reactions. And what he made of it. Certainly the man was aware by now that they were unfamiliar with cultivation and cultivators. Would that level of ignorance have been normal and expected in his time? Would certain groups be expected to be more aware than others? Or were cultivators fables and legends even in his time, with knowledge about them more fiction than fact even among the wealthy and powerful?

As Wei Wuxian approached the shore, Wen Yuan reached out and poked the water near the man’s foot, plainly half-expecting it to be hard to the touch from the way he almost overbalanced when his hand encountered no resistance and only saved from an unpleasant dunking when Wei Wuxian laughed and caught him by the collar.

Wen Yuan’s eyes narrowed at the broad, shameless smirk on Wei Wuxian’s face, and for a moment Lan Wangji wondered if the usually responsible boy was about to give the water a much more serious smack – in the spirit of scientific inquiry and finding out what would happen if someone walking on the water’s surface encountered a more serious wave, of course. Before Lan Wangji could do more than hastily wonder how to respond if the result was both of them falling into the frigid water, however, Wei Wuxian had stepped up onto dry land again, letting go of Wen Yuan once the boy’s center of gravity was safely away from the water. Tugging his collar back into place, Wen Yuan pouted as Wei Wuxian dropped to a cross-legged seat on the ground and wagged a finger teasingly at him – then caught Lan Wangji’s flat, unimpressed stare and flushed, clearly recognizing that he’d been about to cross a line.

Turning that same stare on Wei Wuxian only resulted in an unrepentant grin, unfortunately.

Lan Wangji sighed internally and picked up his chopsticks – and then deliberately selected a portion of bitter greens and transferred them to the man’s bowl. Wei Wuxian huffed loudly, wrinkling his nose in theatrical annoyance before pointedly adding a serving of liangpi noodles to the greens.

Wen Yuan’s face brightened when he saw the noodles. “You made spicy stuff?” he blurted, eyes sparkling as he scanned the spread again, noting the hot dishes mixed in among Lan Wangji’s more usual fare.

Wei Wuxian grinned broadly. “I made it!” he declared with pride.

Deserved pride, at that; he’d made nearly a third of the dishes they’d prepared for Wen Yuan’s welcome luncheon. The incident with the burned hand on the stovetop aside, Wei Wuxian was a relatively good cook – except that, having discovered chili oil and hot peppers, he tried to add them to nearly everything.

Lan Wangji was glad the man had discovered something he liked about the modern world. But his spice tolerance was absolutely terrifying.

Or at least he thought so. But Wen Yuan’s eyes lit up when he tried a piece of mapo tofu. “It’s great!” he said enthusiastically, even as he hastily reached for his rice to buffer some of the burn.

Lan Wangji settled back on the stone bench with his own selection of far more reasonable dishes, watching the two laughing together with a sense of bemusement. It had been two weeks already since Wei Wuxian had awakened from the ice – although perhaps he should consider that it had been only two weeks? And yet he still found himself struggling with the mental whiplash of how in one moment, Wei Wuxian was a mystical and mysterious cultivator from the distant past, and the next, a young man no older than some of Lan Wangji’s own students, playing pranks and getting into a spice-tolerance competition with a teenager.

With the greatest whiplash, of course, being the realization that the “difference” was purely a matter of his own perceptions; Wei Wuxian was both, at one and the same time, and any disjoint came from Lan Wangji’s own preconceived expectations.

He’d thought, that first week, that he’d successfully put the mystique of the Yiling Laozu out of mind when it came came to Wei Wuxian the living man. Apparently he hadn’t. It should have been disconcerting, to suddenly transition to living with the man…

Should have been. And yet, it hadn’t. Or rather, it had… but he found himself regarding the process almost fondly. Living with Wei Wuxian had been less a matter of dispelling the mystique than of grounding it in laughter and bright-eyed interest in everything.

Granted, it helped that he and Wei Wuxian had proved surprisingly compatible as housemates. Despite the fact that his previous hunch had proven correct: left to his own devices, outside the artificially monotonous environs of the lab, Wei Wuxian was absolutely a night owl. Lan Wangji had awakened after midnight once and glimpsed Wei Wuxian training with his sword in the garden, perfectly at ease in the night.

…Lan Wangji had, perhaps, watched the scene through his window far longer than was appropriate. But he was only human… and so much of Wei Wuxian’s personality was bright enthusiasm and bounce that glimpsing the underlying core of strength and discipline was… striking.

Oddly, he suspected that it was that very difference in their preferred sleep patterns that made the system work so well. By the time Wei Wuxian rose, late in the morning, Lan Wangji had finished his morning routine and had time to flesh out the previous evening’s notes, respond to emails, and make his plans for the day, while the evening hours gave Wei Wuxian his own time to use as he saw fit. Lan Wangji suspected that the training he had glimpsed that night was part of Wei Wuxian’s own private routine; the man almost certainly spent time meditating as well, and of course exploring during the silent hours of the night when it would be easiest to go unseen, getting to know the area.

Lan Wangji did his best not to worry about that. Wei Wuxian was competent and capable… and, as Wen Qing had so succinctly put it, an adult in good health and of sound mind. Lan Wangji had done his best to explain the overall situation in terms Wei Wuxian would be familiar with; he had neither the ability nor the right to curtail what the man did in that knowledge.

He just had to keep reminding himself of that. Regularly.

Lunch finished, they worked together to pack away the leftovers. Of which there were quite a few; he’d planned for that, knowing from experience that one should keep snacks available when hosting a growing teenager. He suspected they would also be welcome to a physically active adult out and about into the early hours of morning. Once that was done, Wen Yuan pulled out the book of poetry, to first curiosity and then eager enthusiasm on Wei Wuxian’s part.

Lan Wangji settled back on the bench, laptop open as he began composing the weekly status report that Lan Qiren had requested. It was an easy enough task, since it largely consisted of compiling and editing the daily notes he was keeping for himself. Made easier by the fact that they had, after due consideration, chosen to inform Lan Qiren of Wei Wuxian’s whereabouts. It meant he could be more complete with his explanations, knowing that his uncle would then edit it down for the rest of the researchers.

Which meant, in turn, that he could keep part of his attention on his companions as they settled by the spring – Wei Wuxian actually pulling his boots off to dangle his feet in the water despite his earlier reaction to the cold – and began flipping through the book together, not actually working at reading it yet so much as skimming through the contents.

Midway through, Wei Wuxian snickered suddenly, pointing at something in the text with a knowing grin. Wen Yuan blinked, apparently puzzled… and then turned beet red, covering his face with both hands.

Lan Wangji carefully kept his gaze on the computer and did not smirk. Apparently Wen Yuan had forgotten that Li Bai was Lan Wangji’s go-to exemplar for his “yes, that is a raunchy double entendre in your classical poetry” lecture.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Wei Wuxian ruffled the boy’s hair with a grin before turning the pages to something a little more tame, obviously comparing the original text to the modern rendition. 

Or at least attempting to do so; Lan Wangji was not certain how far Wei Wuxian’s current skill in the language would take him. He thought that Wei Wuxian had thus far mastered perhaps three to four hundred words, and was comfortable with basic sentences. That level of progress that was nothing short of astounding, given that it had only been two weeks, and the multitude of handicaps he was operating under: the stresses of the situation, the lack of shared context, the limited environment meaning that there were entire categories of words he had yet to encounter.

At the same time, it was clear that there were limits to what he had learned – evidenced by the look of intent concentration on his face when Wen Yuan spoke. Conversation was much more than grammar and vocabulary, after all. Leaving aside the nuances of body language – nuances that had doubtlessly changed significantly in modern urban culture – there was also the simple necessity of training the ear to catch, interpret, and even predict what someone was saying. And that, Wei Wuxian had had very little opportunity to practice.

Through no fault of his own; much as it irked him to grant the point, Lan Wangji knew that the lack of conversational fluency was his own failing. Try as he might, casual conversation was something that… did not come easily. Particularly when his reflex was to stop and correct the grammatical errors, or seek out the exact word or phrase best suited to the intent, rather than settling for good enough for the sake of conversational flow.

Lan Qiren was not the only pedant in the family, it seemed.

Fortunately, Wen Yuan did not share that tendency. And his speech was far more casual and colloquial in style – better suited to Wei Wuxian’s relaxed, cheerful bearing than stiff formality, in Lan Wangji’s opinion. It was clear that over the course of just the one morning that he’d improved significantly.

Evidenced by a grinning comment that Lan Wangji did not quite catch, that made Wen Yuan splutter for a moment before the boy laughingly struck the water with his hand, sending a cold spray at Wei Wuxian. The cultivator yelped a protest, curling protectively around the open book – the reflexes of someone from a time when books would have been relatively rare and difficult to replace. From the dismayed look on his face, Wen Yuan had belatedly realized that as well – and then Wei Wuxian grinned and used his foot to flick cold droplets into the boy’s face with remarkable accuracy.

Listening to the two playing, Lan Wangji looked back at the screen and his report, but his focus was no longer on the words.

He knew that he needed to tell Wei Wuxian the truth about what had happened. Moral imperative and ethical responsibility aside… Eventually, the word that the famed Yiling Laozu was alive would get out, and at that point the modern world would descend on them in all its relentless, chaotic tumult. It was mere luck – and the efforts of Nie Mingjue and his men, and Lan Qiren – that had kept the secret this long. Better that Wei Wuxian learn the truth now, to give him some time to adjust before he was plunged headlong into the maelstrom.

Just… not yet. He wanted to wait a little longer: to give Wei Wuxian time to feel more confident in his grasp of modern language, to get a little closer to fluency. To let Wen Yuan get settled into his own role and relationship, so that Wei Wuxian would have a second person to lean on as he worked through that knowledge.

Hopefully, that would give Lan Wangji enough time to find some way to broach the conversation in the first place.

Not to mention seeking out evidence to offer, should Wei Wuxian quite understandably demand that he prove his claim. Thus far, he’d had little luck; it had been too long, the heavy hand of time rendering so much of the world unrecognizable.

Granted, evidence was not strictly necessary. As Wen Qing had noted, given time enough clues would accumulate naturally to show the truth of his words. But he wanted to be able to at least offer the kindness of a swift and undeniable truth, rather than compound the pain of loss with uncertainty or false hope.

And he still had time; that same lack of readily available evidence meant Wei Wuxian was unlikely to find the rotted ax handle – as Wen Qing had aptly put it – by chance. He had time to choose his words and seek his evidence.

He had time.

This is so cool!

Wen Yuan… was doing his best to at least pretend to be calm and dignified and properly Grown Up And Reliable. This was important, after all. He didn’t want Professor Lan to think he’d made a mistake in letting Wen Yuan be a part of it.

But he couldn’t help being excited!

He’d been a little worried about meeting Wei Wuxian again – after all, he’d left right after Wei Wuxian woke up. And he was just a teenager. Maybe Wei Wuxian wasn’t that much older in terms of actual years – not counting the whole ice thing – but Wen Yuan knew from experience that guys like Mo Xuanyu who were okay with hanging out with teenagers were the exception rather than the rule. And Wei Wuxian… well, odds were good that he’d basically been acting as a real adult for years. Would he really want a… well, a kid following him around?

But Wei Wuxian had seemed genuinely glad to see him again! And he hadn’t seemed at all bothered by Wen Yuan being younger, even when they’d sat down together to go through the medical reports and Wen Yuan had spent most of the conversation fumbling through half-complete explanations because even when he broke things down to simple terms, there were just so many words.

And the bilingual poetry book had worked even better than he’d hoped! Even if he had forgotten that some of the poetry got a bit, um, colorful. But as he’d thought, Wei Wuxian seemed to appreciate the wry humor, and to genuinely enjoy the more casual style that Li Bai had pioneered.

They’d even gotten into an impromptu competition over who could do the most ridiculously over-the-top recitation of one of the poems. Which had turned into practically a debate over interpretation, which was way more fun if you were doing it for fun. Like arguing over characterization in a xianxia show with Ouyang Zizhen, rather than a formal literary analysis report for school.

Across the table, Wei Wuxian glanced up from the paper he was sketching on, one eyebrow raised quizzically. Sheepish, Wen Yuan quickly shook his head and bent over his chemistry textbook again, not really wanting to explain that he’d been snickering at the thought of the look on Lan Jingyi’s face if he ever learned that Wen Yuan had spent a whole afternoon with the super-cool ancient magic cultivator nerding out.

Not that Lan Jingyi had any right to throw stones. Wen Yuan knew perfectly well who contributed the most volume – in both senses of the word – to those debates with Ouyang Zizhen, and it definitely wasn’t him.

Besides. Historically, if you wanted to be considered accomplished, it wasn’t enough to be badass, you had to be a cultured badass. Of course Wei Wuxian would know about poetic interpretation and debate translation choices, that was what you were supposed to do as an educated man!

Plus, seriously, the fact that he knew enough of modern Mandarin that he could argue translation and interpretation, after only two weeks? Wen Yuan had been doing a lot of reading about second language acquisition, helping Professor Lan put together a plan of sorts for the language lessons. That Wei Wuxian had learned so fast was a whole different kind of badass.

Wen Yuan finished the last equation and closed his book with a sigh of relief. He’d go back and check his work later, of course, but right now, if he never had to look at another chemical formula again he would be perfectly content.

Pushing the book aside – free at last! – he glanced across the table, and blinked. He’d noticed that Wei Wuxian had been working on something while he’d been finishing his homework, but he’d assumed the man had been writing his own notes, or maybe painting something. But instead, he’d divided a piece of paper into thirds, and…

“Is that a lingfu?” he blurted, eyes wide. Because yes, Lan Wangji had told him about that in his daily updates, and had even sent him pictures of a few. But that wasn’t the same thing as seeing one in person. Especially when he now knew that they actually worked!

Wei Wuxian grinned. “Yes. It is new protection ward.”

Okay, somehow it was just kind of funny that he knew words like protection and ward but not, oh, money or burger. It did logically make sense; half the vocabulary lists that Wen Yuan remembered from his early English classes were things like… well, he doubted that Wei Wuxian had even seen a car or a superstore, let alone knew what they were. Of course his starting vocabulary would be things that referenced his context and experience.

But it was still kind of funny.

Leaning forward over the table, Wen Yuan stared in fascination as Wei Wuxian added another mark. He’d always thought that lingfu looked kind of, well, messy, even the super-simplified version that got used as talismans in xianxia shows. But watching one being made, he could see that there was actually an underlying structure to the whole design. Kind of like opening up a computer to see a whole labyrinth of wires and electronic chips, versus building one yourself and knowing what each of those wires and chips was doing.

“How does that even work?” he asked, fascinated. “I mean, it’s paper.”

Professor Lan twitched and Wen Yuan blanched, mind suddenly catching up with his mouth. Oh no, he’d screwed up – lingfu were supposed to be a secret art, and here he was just poking his nose in!

But Wei Wuxian just laughed, apparently unoffended, and reached over to snag a fresh piece of paper. A few quick folds, and he’d separated one third for a new lingfu. Then he picked up his brush and quickly wrote a character on the leftover paper. “First is this.”

Wen Yuan blinked, squinting. That wasn’t just the older style of characters Wei Wuxian used, that was seal script, and he wasn’t so good at… oh. “Protection?”

Wei Wuxian nodded, tapping the character with the handle of his brush. “This is…” He hesitated, glancing at Lan Wangji. “First? Over?” A quick flicker of the brush painted a pair of characters in the corner of the paper.

Lan Wangji considered them for a moment. “Primary,” he suggested.

Wei Wuxian pursed his lips, head cocked to the side as he considered the word before nodding. “Primary,” he echoed. “It… says? makes? …the use. Watch!”

Picking up the lingfu-sized blank piece, he began to ink the character for protection, and Wen Yuan blinked. Without the jumble of other lines to distract his eyes, he could see how what he’d thought was a decorative border actually was the character for protection, the lines broadened and elongated to create a sort of frame for the lingfu.

“Oh. That makes sense,” Wen Yuan said. Peering at the lingfu Wei Wuxian had been working on earlier, he tried to unscramble the layers of lines in his head. It took him a minute, while Wei Wuxian waited with an air of amused patience, but finally a familiar shape caught his eye. Grabbing his pencil, he wrote the character for watching on the sheet Wei Wuxian was using as a scratch pad.

The cultivator grinned broadly. “Good!” he said enthusiastically, and added it to the demonstration lingfu he’d started, filling in the interior of the border created by the character for protection. “This is… foot. No… ground?”

Huh. “The base?” Wen Yuan suggested, and hastily wrote the word out when Wei Wuxian looked at him curiously.

Wei Wuxian’s face immediately brightened, and he quickly wrote out what looked like the same characters in their older form, turning to Lan Wangji for confirmation. When the professor nodded, Wei Wuxian repeated the word in his own language – at which point Wen Yuan realized that Lan Wangji was taking notes, probably to add the new phrases to the lexicon they were building – and then turned back to Wen Yuan. “This is base… this is the base,” he corrected himself. “And so…” A circling motion with a finger, indicating the way that the character filled the space inside that framing primary character.

Wen Yuan blinked, suddenly seeing the messiness of the lingfu in a new light. He was used to thinking of written things as being, well, visual, stuff meant to be seen. But if they were actually made up of functional layers… then of course it was going to look like a mess when you tried to view all of it at once. Like looking at an html code without any line breaks or color coding. They were three-dimensional, even if the dimensions were squished onto a two-dimensional surface.

And he was willing to bet that which layer got added where and when was just as important as sequencing in computer code. And that didn’t even get into the implications of what symbols were used. Come to think of it, he remembered reading that historical lingfu often incorporated characters from the Devanagari script. Which meant that there were two writing systems involved!

Just… Wow. He knew lingfu had to be complicated, they’d hardly be a special secret art if they were easy, but…

“I bet you would love programming,” he muttered.

Wei Wuxian blinked, tilting his head to the side with a quizzical sound. Wen Yuan shook his head, smiling sheepishly. He had some ideas for how to introduce computers properly, rather than just the surface-level “weird widget these people use” that Wei Wuxian had already figured out. But it kind of depended on getting the whole fifteen hundred years thing out of the way first.

“But how does it work?” he asked, reaching over to trace the shape of the protection character with his finger – although he was careful not to actually touch the paper. Not that he thought Wei Wuxian was the sort of person who’d leave a magic spell armed and ready to trigger, so to speak. But he did want to show that he was careful and responsible, and that meant not doing potentially stupid things. Like poking the mysterious complicated magic thing without instructions. “It’s just ink and paper.”

Erm. He assumed that was ink, anyway. Although historically, he did know that cinnabar was used in a lot of important stuff because the bright red was considered auspicious.

Wei Wuxian tapped the handle of his brush against his cheek for a moment, obviously weighing his words carefully. “Qi is… like water,” he said at last. “It is moving. Wards are like…” He pursed his lips and looked at Lan Wangji as he quickly wrote a word.

“Irrigation,” Lan Wangji said after a moment, and Wen Yuan could tell he was intrigued. For that matter, so was Wen Yuan; of all the possible analogies he might have imagined for explaining a fantastical thing like qi, something as… well, mundane as irrigation would not have occurred to him.

Which was silly, really. He only got to think of irrigation as boring because he lived in a modern world with modern farming techniques and transportation technology. If one bad harvest could make the difference between feast and famine, then there wouldn’t be anything boring about irrigation.

“Qi moves,” Wei Wuxian continued, turning back to Wen Yuan. “I use small qi, pull some to new path.” He tapped the paper. “Lingfu makes shape of path. It is started, it does not stop. To stop, I must do.” He puffed his cheeks with a huff and smiled wryly, obviously frustrated by the clumsiness of his limited vocabulary.

Personally, Wen Yuan was impressed, more than anything else. Because even if the phrasing was clumsy, the explanation made sense. It sounded like wards were… well, even more like programs than he’d thought, with just a certain amount of activation energy needed to trigger them, at which point they used ambient energy to run on their own.

At least, it made sense as long as he managed to get his brain unstuck from the whole qi exists! thing. Which was tricky, because what was qi even supposed to…

Wait. Okay, he was being silly. Obviously Wei Wuxian didn’t mind questions, so why not just ask? “So where does qi come from? What is qi?”

Wei Wuxian blinked at him, looking genuinely taken aback. “Qi… is,” he said.

Wen Yuan chewed at his lip. Well, that didn’t really help. Was he supposed to take that as a profound statement about the nature of reality, or just the limits of Wei Wuxian’s grasp of modern language? Or maybe the question just didn’t make sense to him, like asking what air was and where it came from. People tended to have bigger things to worry about.

But when Wei Wuxian saw his expression, he huffed, clearly amused, and then reached out to poke Wen Yuan on the tip of his nose. “Qi is here,” he said briskly, and then waved a hand at Lan Wangji. “Qi is there.” He rapped on the surface of the table in front of him with his knuckles, then waved vaguely in the direction of the garden. “It is here. It is there. Qi is. Sometimes strong. Sometimes not strong. Sometimes clean, sometimes…” He hesitated, making a sort of twisting motion with his hand, then shrugged. “Qi is.”

Wen Yuan couldn’t help a rueful smile. Okay, profound statement about the nature of reality it was. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lan Wangji jotting down notes on a pad; he was willing to bet that the professor would want to go back and compare Wei Wuxian’s account to the various philosophies that talked about qi.

Wen Yuan didn’t know his classical philosophers quite so well, but he did wonder what Wei Wuxian would think of the Force. Come to think of it, hadn’t George Lucas based that on qigong philosophies?

He sighed wistfully. “I just wish I could do stuff like that,” he said. When Wei Wuxian gave him a curious look, he imitated one of the seals he’d seen in xianxia shows. “Fwoosh!”

Okay, yes, he’d been fishing for a laugh with that – and got one, as Wei Wuxian threw back his head, cackling gleefully.

Still snickering, Wei Wuxian shook his head with a grin… and then tilted his head, studying Wen Yuan thoughtfully, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Wen Yuan narrowed his eyes, immediately wary. That was the look of someone who was plotting. “…Whaaat…?” he asked suspiciously.

Wei Wuxian grinned at him, sunny and smug, and ostentatiously turned back to the lingfu he’d been working on. He even started humming. 

Wen Yuan had to be impressed. That was the most pointed nonverbal I’m not gonna tell yoooou taunt he’d seen in his life!

Sighing dramatically, just in case a good guilt trip would be enough to tempt out a more forthcoming answer, Wen Yuan flopped forward over the table, nearly disturbing the little stack of papers Wei Wuxian had accumulated over the evening. Some of them looked like notes, although it was hard to tell, since they were in that swirling, flowing cursive that was awesome to look at and awful to read.

Which might actually be the point, now that he thought about it. Given that Wei Wuxian was still trying to figure out what was going on… well, it would make sense that if he had to write things down, he wouldn’t want to make it easy for someone to snoop. Not that they would, of course!… but still, taking precautions was just practical.

A glimpse of something that definitely wasn’t writing caught his eye. Intrigued, Wen Yuan almost reached out before catching himself and looking sheepishly at Wei Wuxian. “Um, is it okay if I…?”

The cultivator grinned and waved a hand, still humming to himself – although the tune had shifted from taunting to something peaceful and lilting as he idly spun the brush between his fingers. Taking the gesture as permission, Wen Yuan snagged the sheet of paper out of the pile, tugging it over for a closer look.

He had to smile – it was an ink painting of the Cold Springs, with the mountain rising up behind dark trees, both reflected in the water. Although Wei Wuxian had definitely taken some creative liberties; the mountain was a little more symmetrical, and the stone benches had been left out, giving the whole scene a much rawer, wilder look. He’d even added a couple of bunnies half-hidden in the grasses at the edge of the spring, although Wen Yuan was very certain that there’d been no bunnies there that afternoon.

He couldn’t help being impressed. He remembered trying ink painting in class. It was really different from sketching, and especially from painting with oil or acrylics. With oil paint, you could go back again and again for weeks if you had to, getting everything just right. An ink painting might be done in five minutes… but there were no take-backs and no corrections. When the ink hit the paper, it was there to stay. So he had some idea of what it took to get that soft curve of the huddled rabbits and the delicate lines of ripples breaking apart the shadowy reflections.

It really was a good painting. Would Wei Wuxian mind if he kept it? It would make a really nice wall hanging.

Intending to ask, Wen Yuan looked up, waiting for an appropriate pause in the humming, and blinked. Now that he actually listened…

“Wait. That’s High Mountains and Flowing Water!” he blurted. The cadence was a little odd, and some of the notes and phrases weren’t what he was used to, but it was still recognizably the famous guqin song.

Wei Wuxian blinked at his sudden enthusiasm, clearly caught off guard. After a moment of plainly trying to puzzle through the words, he looked over at Lan Wangji, clearly hoping for an explanation.

Rather than explaining, Lan Wangji set his notepad aside and stood up to walk over to his guqin in the corner of the room. Settling himself down behind it, he began to play.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes lit up as the first strings sang – and then even more as the notes began building upon each other into a recognizable melody. Leaning forward, he listened intently for a few phrases.

Then, unexpectedly, he started to sing.

Wen Yuan stared for a minute, taken aback. He knew that lots of people had come up with lyrics to match the famous song. It just… never occurred to him that people in ancient times would have done the same thing. Even if in hindsight it was perfectly obvious that they would; as Lan Wangji often reminded him, the basic nature of people back then wasn’t any different from people today, they just lived in very different circumstances…

Wait – phone, phone, where did I put…!

Casting about frantically, he spotted his phone on the table and lunged for it, almost dropping it in his hurry before he finally got the audio recording app up and running.

Wei Wuxian had clearly noticed his scrambling, but the man kept singing, voice bright and clear. Although it was obvious that there were differences between the version he knew and the one Lan Wangji was playing; several times, one stumbled when the other hit a note or phrase he hadn’t expected. After a section where they hit three such mismatches in close succession, Wei Wuxian actually had to stop singing for a minute because he was laughing too hard. But they still managed to get through the whole song – despite fifteen centuries of changing musical traditions between them.

Once the song was done, Wen Yuan reached for his phone again, meaning to stop the recording. As he picked it up, however, Lan Wangji began playing again, starting a new song.

Wen Yuan hesitated, frowning. He wasn’t sure – he was still learning the basics of playing the guqin, music history wasn’t something he’d really dug into – but he thought that was a newer piece, from when the Tang Dynasty had gotten established enough for the trade roads to start bringing in new music from other places again. Mostly because he remembered something about that trill being something adapted to the guqin from Indian music…

Well Wuxian listened for a minute, lips pursed thoughtfully. When Lan Wangji glanced at him, however, he shook his head; he didn’t recognize the melody. Lan Wangji nodded, moving to muffle the strings—

“No no no!” Wei Wuxian said quickly, waving his hands. “Do not stop!”

Lan Wangji hesitated for just a heartbeat at that, but then gave an infinitesimal nod and resumed.

Wei Wuxian continued to listen for a minute, expression intent as he idly twirled his black dizi between his fingers. Then he brought the mouthpiece up to his lips and began to play.

The accompaniment was relatively simple – which made sense, given that Wei Wuxian was improvising it on the fly for a song he’d never heard before, influenced by a musical tradition he’d probably never even encountered. And yet it worked. By the end of the song, he’d even gotten enough of a feel for it to start throwing in embellishments to dance around the ringing tones of the guqin.

This time, after the song ended, Wei Wuxian only paused for a second or two before starting in on a new piece, one Wen Yuan didn’t recognize. And going by the slight furrow in Lan Wangji’s brow, it was unfamiliar to him as well. After listening briefly, however, his hands began moving over the strings again, starting with a basic baseline and then slowly building in complexity from there.

They’re jamming, Wen Yuan thought, grinning. It’s an ancient music jam session, how cool is that, no one’s going to believe… Oops!

Hastily, he fished his spare charger out of his bag and plugged his phone in – the last thing he wanted was for his battery to die on him now, of all times. Another spark of inspiration hit, and he grabbed a spare piece of paper and started jotting down timestamps and notes, leaving space for other additions later. This definitely belonged in the “add to records” file!

Although really, right now he would just about give his soul for a proper recording device, rather than his phone’s built-in microphone. But for now, he’d take what he could get.

Especially given that when it was Lan Wangji’s turn again, he started on another Tang-era piece – except that Wei Wuxian’s face immediately brightened and he immediately joined in, which meant that particular song was way older than people had thought, even if the version he knew clearly wasn’t exactly the same.

They continued trading back and forth for a good half-dozen songs, with Wen Yuan listening intently and scribbling notes as he went. He’d have to go back later to get the titles for the ones he didn’t recognize. Which was most of them; he wasn’t sure, but he thought that Lan Wangji was deliberately exploring folk songs dated to later periods, maybe trying to see if any of them were actually older than scholars thought. And the songs Wei Wuxian was playing were a whole bunch of different styles – maybe from different regions?

Wen Yuan had to bite back a laugh at that. So basically they’re both testing each other. It’s a jam session and an ancient music version of a dance-off!

There weren’t a lot of shared ones, though. Which made sense, really; music, especially folk songs, was one of those things that didn’t stay static, even when people did try to lock it in place with a written version. For that matter, he should check with Wei Wuxian about the titles of the pieces that Wen Yuan recognized; it was entirely possible that the tune had survived under multiple names.

Meanwhile, Lan Wangji had started another song. Wen Yuan didn’t recognize this one, either, but he immediately made a mental note to find out where it had come from; there was a softness to the lilting tone that sank into the mind and settled there, peaceful but not sleepy – almost like settling into meditation just right—

Wei Wuxian stiffened.

Wen Yuan blinked. Wei Wuxian was staring at Lan Wangji with a startled sort of intensity that felt very different from the look of concentration he’d had when trying to figure out an unfamiliar song. Then he lifted his dizi and…

Oh. That was why. He wasn’t just familiar with this one, he knew it.

There were none of the hesitations or slight mismatches from the other pieces. The dizi’s countermelody danced around the guqin, playful where the guqin was steady, soft where the strings were strong, sometimes settling into a perfect harmony for a few measures before dancing away again, even picking up the main melody in places. It wasn’t just an accompaniment, it was a duet.

Wen Yuan let out a breath as the song came to an end. “That was amazing,” he said with feeling. “What was it? Why haven’t I heard it before?”

Lan Wangji didn’t smile, but Wen Yuan could tell that he was amused by the outpouring of enthusiasm. “It is an untitled piece I discovered in the archives,” he said.

The archives. Meaning it had just been… forgotten over the centuries?

“How did people just lose a song like that?!” Wen Yuan demanded… or rather, intended to. Except that, when he opened his mouth, he was suddenly ambushed by a jaw-cracking yawn.

What? No! I can’t be sleepy already!

But Lan Wangji looked at the clock, which showed it was already nine thirty, and set his guqin aside. “Enough.”

“But…” Wen Yuan said, trying not to whine. Lan Wangji took sleep schedules seriously, yes, but… he wasn’t ready for the day to be over.

Lan Wangji was unmoved. “There will be time tomorrow.”

Wen Yuan huffed, cheeks puffing out – which was not a pout and he was not channeling Jin Ling in a sulk! – and sent a beseeching look Wei Wuxian’s direction.

He blinked. He’d expected Wei Wuxian to be laughing at him, to be honest. Instead, he found the man’s mobile face had gone utterly still, grey eyes unreadable as he watched Lan Wangji covering his guqin.

Only he must have noticed Wen Yuan’s attention, because a moment later he laughed, wagging a chiding finger at Wen Yuan with a smirk. “Sleeping time is sleeping time, little student,” he mock-scolded, gathering up his papers from the table.

Including the ink painting of the cold springs, Wen Yuan noted with disappointment as he started clearing away his textbooks – they’d decided that he would sleep in the public room for the time being, which meant rearranging things for space.

Maybe he could ask about the painting tomorrow. He would need to follow up about the titles of the songs they’d just done, anyway. Especially that last one! The idea that it had just been moldering away forgotten in some historic archive was just… just wrong, darn it.

But he had to admit – especially when he found himself yawning all over again – that Lan Wangji was right. It really had been a long – wild! – day. Even if he tried to keep going, he’d just end up making stupid mistakes. There wasn’t any rush. Questions could wait for tomorrow.

That was Forget Envies.

Wei Wuxian strolled down the stone-pathed path, humming to himself as he enjoyed the cool breeze filtering through the trees. The moon beyond the trees was getting close to full, and that meant there was more than enough light trickling through the leaves to light his way; he’d always had excellent night vision, anyway..

And he’d spent the last few days since moving into Lan Wangji’s home… well, to be honest, he’d mostly been meditating and training, trying to sort out the strange ache in his core. But he’d also explored quite a bit. Although he’d mostly prioritized the maze of buildings, for several reasons. First, simply to familiarize himself with the paths and the blind spots, so that he could get around unnoticed. But also… well. There weren’t generally a lot of people out, but there were usually enough for him to spend some time eavesdropping. Not that he actually understood much of what they said, but it gave him a sense of the rhythm of the language.

He’d stayed within the compound itself, however. Lan Wangji had asked him to, after all. And more to the point… if his guess about the glow against low-hanging clouds was correct, there was a city nearby, perhaps at the base of the mountain, and he’d really rather spend a little more time learning how to blend in before he tried exploring that.

But he hadn’t explored the wooded area immediately surrounding Lan Wangji’s home. Not before today.

The path was threaded with moonlight. Easy enough to find his way, even while his mind was racing.

He’d spent a lot of time with Lan Yi during the war. The woman who’d led her sect back to power and prominence with steadfast resolve, unwavering focus and a few strategically placed Chord Assassinations was not the sort to be discomfited by some not entirely conventional cultivation techniques. Despite the difference in their ages, they’d gotten along well enough. Like him, she was interested in the theory and philosophy of cultivation, in trying new things rather than sticking rigorously to the tried and traditional. And it had been a relief to spend time talking to someone who was interested in the how and what and why of his new techniques, rather than praising him to his face (or whining about him not doing more, despite him explaining yet again that no, he couldn’t just wave a hand and raise the Wen dead to fight their own people, it didn’t work that way; even odds which way the conversations would go, really) and then sneering about heresy and demonic behind his back.

Lan Yi had huffed at that. “Excellence will always draw the envy of the petty,” she’d said with a serenity that did absolutely nothing to hide the razor edge in her words. “Very well then, let us be heretical together.”

He hadn’t taken her up on it too often; Jiang Cheng had been touchy about Wei Wuxian spending too much time away from the Jiang camp, and the last thing he’d wanted was to give the swamp of inveterate gossips that was the cultivation world any ammunition to use against Lan Yi.

But he’d spent more than enough time with her to recognize the song she’d composed for her deceased husband. Given he’d been there as she composed it.

It was a good song. Even after the war, he’d catch himself humming snatches of it every now and then, in rare moments of peace, or when he’d needed to calm someone.

And it was a song that no one else in the world should know about.

“I did not compose this for the world,” she’d told him, when he’d wondered aloud why she never performed the song publicly, not even for members of her own sect, cool and calm the way only dangerously deep waters could be. “Let my descendants discover it, generations after I am gone. In my life, it will belong to me and my husband alone.”

War had finally done what fifty years and sect leadership – and three children! – had failed to do, carving fine lines of time at the corners of mouth and eyes. Lines that crinkled into a very un-Lan-like smirk as she raised an eyebrow at him. “Although apparently you as well.”

He’d laughed, spinning Chenqing in his hand. That had been the first time he’d played the accompaniment he’d composed for the piece, and he was pleased it had gone over well. “Careful there,” he warned her lightly, batting his eyes playfully. “Jiang Cheng will accuse you of trying to steal me again!”

Lan Yi had given him an arch look that was suspiciously knowing, and turned back to her guqin without a word. And the conversation had drifted away to other, less fraught topics from there.

Only now, as he walked out into the open moonlight surrounding the springs, her words were echoing in his head.

Let my descendants discover it, generations after I am gone.

And his host was Lan Wangji.

He hadn’t survived the Sunshot Campaign by believing in coincidences. Especially given…

Still humming to himself, he began walking around the edge of the pool, retracing the same route he’d taken earlier.

Under moonlight, the resemblance was even more striking. Oh, the path itself had changed from the one he’d once followed on a dare, and there had been no benches, before. After all, you were supposed to meditate in the Cold Springs, that was the whole point! But the springs themselves, the dark stone bulk of the cliff, even the moss-clothed stones standing up out of the water singly and in clusters here and there…

Well. They hadn’t changed a bit.

The forest, now… the forest had definitely changed. But then, it would have, wouldn’t it? He’d never had a chance to come back during the war, and the situation after hadn’t really been conducive to casually dropping by other sects for a visit… but Cloud Recesses had burned. Of course it would grow back changed.

Except.

He’d visited places where forest fires had raged, on night hunts; guai and yao were prone to manifesting in the wreckage left behind by so many lives and cycles suddenly and violently destroyed. Between that and the war… well. He knew from experience how soot and char could linger, years and even decades after the last hint of smoke was gone.

And these woods were not young.

His leisurely stroll had brought him around to the far side of the spring. Deliberately, he turned, looking across the water and out over the trees to the mountain gleaming silver against the night sky.

And then down to the painting in his hand.

Ignore the benches, ignore minor details in the placement of the trees, and the match was almost perfect.

Except that the mountain looming over him now was missing a piece. A piece that matched the scar on its side, mark of a long-ago rockslide that had shattered part of the peak and smashed its way down the mountainside.

So long ago that the forest had grown back over the scar.

Deliberately, Wei Wuxian set the painting aside on a nearby bench, setting a rock on it to hold it in place in case the wind picked up. Then he set his hands on his hips and huffed.

Let my descendants discover it, generations after I am gone.

It should have been ridiculous. Yes, he’d spent three years in the Burial Mounds; it wasn’t that long to spend in secluded cultivation, not at his level. But while he wouldn’t put it past the warped ancient battlefield to pull some kind of time shenanigans, he’d visited the town of Yiling fairly regularly, for supplies and to check in with everyone. He was pretty sure he would have noticed years passing like days.

And yet. The last thing he remembered was preparing to leave…

And then waking up out of ice. With an arrow-scar in his chest that he had only a flash of sense-memory associated with, and a core that still felt strangely bruised. Strained. Despite having over a ten-day of nothing better to do but sit around meditating.

Not to mention, surrounded by people speaking a strange language that sometimes verged on too familiar. Who apparently knew next to nothing of cultivation, and had never heard of any of the great sects, so far as he could tell… but who had the names.

How long has it been?

He allowed himself a deep breath, and then vigorously shook his shoulders out, eyeing the pool in front of him. One last test, then.

The layout hadn’t changed very much. He found the rock exactly where he’d expected it. Although now the stone was covered with layer upon layer of thick mosses, thick enough he could feel the age of it, where countless roots had nibbled away at stone.

Nibbled, but not destroyed. And under those roots…

Well then. That was that.

Climbing back out of the water, he took a moment to wring out his clothes, and then sat cross-legged on a bench – not the one where he’d left his painting, he’d worked hard on that, he didn’t want to drip on it! – and rested his chin in his palm, studying the water.

All right then. He’d reached the end of his patience.

Time to see about getting some answers.

Wei Wuxian was waiting for him when Lan Wangji stepped out into the garden for his morning workout.

That alone told him that something was amiss. Over the past week, they’d gotten to know the rhythms of each other’s routine. Wei Wuxian preferred the evening hours, never rising until the sun was high enough in the sky to reach over the trees and directly into the garden.

And yet here he was in the grey pre-dawn light, mobile face set and still in a way that Lan Wangji had only seen once before. After Jin Zixun had attempted to steal his belongings and shattered the implied safety of the lab.

Lan Wangji stiffened, workout forgotten. “Wei Wuxian. What has happened?”

Wei Wuxian’s focus never wavered – not even at the sight of Lan Wangji’s workout clothes, when Lan Wangji would have expected at least a raised eyebrow or teasing grin, given that they had to be positively indecent by the standards Wei Wuxian knew.

The cultivator uncrossed his arms to crook a finger and nodded towards the path leading away from the Jingshi. “Come,” he said.

“…A moment.” Stepping back into his room, Lan Wangji quickly grabbed a light cardigan; the mountain morning air was slightly too chilled to be going about in exercise clothes when one was not actively exercising.

When he stepped out again, Wei Wuxian simply nodded and began walking.

The man’s uncharacteristic silence made the walk through the woods seem to stretch eerily long – not helped by the relaxed, deceptively nonchalant pace that was downright dissonant against the strange tension in the air between them. It felt like an eternity before Wei Wuxian turned, leading Lan Wangji onto the path towards the Cold Springs.

Why the Cold Springs? He hadn’t acted as if anything was amiss when they’d visited yesterday.

Wei Wuxian went to one of the side pools, partially hidden from the rest of the springs by a stony outcrop protruding from the cliff. Then, without so much as a pause, he waded into the water.

Lan Wangji must have made some sound at that; the cultivator looked over his shoulder and suddenly grinned mischievously, beckoning with his hand.

Lan Wangji gave him a flat stare, trying not to betray how relieved he felt at the return of the man’s normal demeanor. Finding a nearby bench, he sat down and began to pull his shoes off. Setting them underneath the bench, he discovered that Wei Wuxian’s boots were already there. He hadn’t even noticed that the man was barefoot, distracted by his strange mood.

He started to roll his pants up as well, but a second glance at the water, already over Wei Wuxian’s knees despite the fact that he’d only gone a few steps away from the edge, changed his mind. Especially given that Wei Wuxian was standing with arms crossed and lips pursed, obviously impatient to get to… whatever it was that he had brought Lan Wangji here to see.

So, abandoning the effort as pointless, Lan Wangji stood up and walked to the edge of the pool.

The water was so cold it burned. Gritting his teeth, Lan Wangji made himself lower his foot all the way to the bottom, then stepped his other foot in – and then had to stop and breathe for a minute, counting off each breath as he waited for his body to adjust. Then, careful of the numbness of his feet, he waded out to join Wei Wuxian.

He found the man watching him with a look of thoughtful interest – which was at least familiar, and vastly preferable to the hard blankness of when they’d first arrived. As was the quirk of a smirk as the man shook his head when Lan Wangji slanted an eyebrow at him in silent inquiry, before turning and moving deeper into the pool.

Bracing himself, Lan Wangji followed.

Wei Wuxian led him to a cluster of stones rising up out of the water in a deeper part of the pool. By the time they reached the stones, the water was almost to the bottom of Lan Wangji’s rib cage. Which was intensely uncomfortable, and he was grimly holding back uneasy thoughts about hypothermia. His feet were already numb from the cold, and he could only be grateful that the bottom of the pool was smooth and even; he was not at all certain he would even feel any obstruction before he tripped on it.

Wei Wuxian didn’t seem troubled by the cold at all, as he turned and tilted his head towards the rocks. “Look.”

Frowning, Lan Wangji shifted to look more closely at the rocks. After a moment he spotted it; on the side of one of the rocks, the thick layers of moss had been peeled back from the stone slightly. He opened his mouth, about to chide the man for the disruption – the mosses here were slow-growing and long-lived – and then paused.

Underneath the uprooted section of moss, he could make out the edges of something carved into the stone.

Hesitating for a moment, he reached out, flexing his fingers to coax some dexterity back into them, and gingerly pulled the moss back to uncover the rest of the carving.

It wasn’t much; just two characters. The lines were somewhat uneven, as if done by someone unfamiliar with carving stone, and centuries of weathering and roots had worn the edges away until the whole carving was more a series of indentations than clearly defined lines. Still, they were legible… and one was quite familiar.

“Wei… Ying?” Lan Wangji read aloud, glancing at Wei Wuxian for confirmation of his pronunciation of the second character.

Wei Wuxian tapped his chest with a single finger. “Me,” he said.

Oh. Of course; that made sense. He hadn’t considered it, not with so many other things happening, but in Wei Wuxian’s time, people had used courtesy names, to mark the transition from child to adult. So Wuxian had to be his courtesy name, while Ying was the name he’d had as a child…

As a child. When, presumably, he’d carved it into this stone. Fifteen hundred years ago.

Lan Wangji looked at the moss again. At those weathered lines, worn down by the passing of centuries.

When he looked up again, he found Wei Wuxian watching him steadily, face expressionless once again. Except for his eyes, which were… not accusatory, perhaps, so much as inescapably knowing.

“How long?” he asked quietly.

Lan Wangji drew in a deep breath, lungs tight in a way that had nothing to do with the icy water he was standing in. He wasn’t ready for this conversation. Now that it had come to him, he felt less ready than ever.

But he’d already lied by omission for far too long. Now Wei Wuxian had found the rotted ax handle on his own, and there could be no more stalling.

He released the breath in a long, slow exhale. “Come with me.”

The first order of business, when they arrived back at the Jingshi, was to change into dry clothes and warm up. Lan Wangji put the wet clothes into the washer, grateful that at least Wei Wuxian had been wearing some of Lan Wangji’s spares rather than his own ancient silks; he could just imagine how Professor Yao would react to “priceless artifacts” being treated in such a way.

Wen Yuan was still sleeping in the main room, so Lan Wangji led Wei Wuxian into his office, where he busied himself making tea for both of them; he kept an electric kettle and the necessary accoutrements on a side table for the times when he was deep in writing or research and disinclined to go to the kitchen.

As he worked, Wei Wuxian looked around with interest; apparently his nocturnal wanderings hadn’t included the study, perhaps out of a sense of courtesy given the locked door, perhaps simply because he’d made the tactical choice to familiarize himself with the wider surroundings first. His eyes lit up when he spotted Lan Wangji’s reference library, three floor-to-ceiling shelves laden with books, and he immediately went over to look at the contents with shameless interest.

Lan Wangji couldn’t help watching out of the corner of his eye. He’d given Wei Wuxian his own blue silk sleeping clothes to change into; they were not entirely dissimilar from Wei Wuxian’s original underrobes, and the cut was loose enough to accommodate the differences in body shape.

He just hadn’t anticipated how… intimate it would look. The collar in particular was much wider and looser than anything Wei Wuxian had worn before, and Lan Wangji kept finding his eyes slipping down to the sharp line of the man’s collarbones. And it did not help that Wei Wuxian had left his hair loose to dry, and kept absently twirling a bit of it between his fingers as he surveyed the shelves. It made Lan Wangji’s fingers itch as he wondered what it would feel like if…

And that was an entirely inappropriate thought, even outside the context of the conversation they were about to have. Mastering his wandering thoughts, Lan Wangji shoved them into a mental box and locked it, before carefully schooling his face to disciplined stillness. Picking up several sheets of paper, he called Wei Wuxian over to the desk.

The man immediately joined him – so perhaps he had not been so deeply absorbed in the shelves as he had appeared. He watched with interest as Lan Wangji laid three sheets of paper out on his desk end to end, taping them together to keep them in place. Fortunately his desk was quite large – a necessity for a scholar who might have four different references open at any one time – so he had the space he needed.

Then he braced himself, and picked up his pen.

He’d spent the soaked, shivering walk back to the Jingshi wracking his mind, going through all the different approaches that he had contemplated for when the time came to explain the full extent of Wei Wuxian’s changed circumstances. This was what he had settled on. Originally he had rejected it as far too distant and impersonal a way to break such devastating news…

But now the news had already broken. What remained was to explain the extent of it in a way that would be clear and easy to wrap one’s mind around.

Not a simple task. Humans were not really wired to think in terms of centuries, let alone millennia.

So…

He began at one end with the Battle of Red Cliffs. He had yet to determine any solid dates for Wei Wuxian himself – not least because attempting such a conversation would have led inexorably to the one they were currently having. But the Battle of Red Cliffs was a specific event of known date, and more importantly one that Wei Wuxian would also know. It would serve as an anchor for the timeline he was about to build.

Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows rose when Lan Wangji added the Sui Dynasty to the line, and even more when he noted the time lapsed – three hundred seventy years after the battle that had spelled the final end of the Han and the fragmentation of a once unified empire.

At first, Wei Wuxian seemed more intrigued than troubled, even when Lan Wangji added the start of the Tang, roughly thirty years after the Sui.

Then Lan Wangji marked the Song, three hundred years after the Tang, and Wei Wuxian’s mouth tightened to a thin, grim line.

Lan Wangji could understand. The moss alone would have made it clear that quite some time had passed. But to know the time was measured not in decades but in centuries…

Lan Wangji didn’t look at the man’s face after that, keeping his eyes on the paper as he added more and more points to the timeline: the Yuan, the Ming, the Qing, and finally the Republic, followed by the People’s Republic of China. Each transition adding more and more to the centuries.

Finally, he added one last set of years – seventy years from the founding of the People’s Republic – and capped off the timeline with a vertical bar. He tapped it with the back of the pen twice, briskly: this is now.

Then he made himself look up.

Wei Wuxian was studying the timeline silently, clearly adding up the dynasties and centuries. His face was still and calm – but for the wide grey eyes, and the paleness of his face. Finally, however, he raised his gaze to meet Lan Wangji’s.

In that moment, he looked horrifying, wrenchingly, ironically young. A stark reminder that outside the ice, he was only in his early twenties.

“One thousand five hundred years,” he said quietly. It was neither a question nor a statement.

Lan Wangji nodded anyway, and braced himself. Because it was one thing to know that years had passed. But facing the vast, stark extent of it – surely there would be grief, fury, disbelief, and he did not blame the man in the least…

Wei Wuxian closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling heavily. Reaching into the loose collar of his borrowed shirt, he pulled out a sheet of paper and placed it on Lan Wangji’s desk.

Lan Wangji felt his eyes widen. He’d spent many hours at the Cold Springs, as a student and after moving into the Jingshi. He recognized that scene. But the absence of the benches, the mountain in the background standing tall and whole…

This was the Cold Springs as Wei Wuxian must have known them, fifteen hundred years ago.

The mountains themselves had changed. No wonder there was no disbelief. On some level, Wei Wuxian had already known. The exact number was simply… confirmation.

Wei Wuxian stepped back from the table. “I need…” he started, and then frowned, gesturing to the door and the garden beyond it, just starting to pick up the glow of the morning sun. “Thinking time,” he approximated, after a moment of obvious sifting through his available vocabulary.

Lan Wangji nodded. That was to be expected. “Take the time you need. I will be here.”

The man nodded, before turning and walking briskly out the door.

Lan Wangji exhaled slowly, and then deliberately lowered himself down onto his desk chair as the tension of the morning… not so much broke as crashed down.

He didn’t know if that had gone well or poorly… but it was done.

Now what?

NOTES:

“Find the rotted ax handle” – a reference to a Chinese folk tale on the lines of Urashimataro, spending too long in the fairy world, or Rip Van Winkle: a woodcutter encounters some immortals on a mountain, eats their food, and notices that his ax handle has rotted away. He goes home to discover that hundreds of years have passed. One of those stories that every culture has some version of!

Safety note: please do not go wading in deep icy cold water. Hypothermia hits fast. I cheated a bit in this chapter for Drama, but it’s canon that the Cold Springs are very cold. Good for superhuman cultivators. Not so good for the rest of us!

I’ve read tons of AUs that recreate the romantic element of Wangxian. But writing this, given the changed context… I decided it would be fun to incorporate Wangxian’s role as a plot device, the seemingly unimportant song that actually gives away a major piece of information. With a touch of role reversal thrown in for good measure!

(Although it does require a bit of handwaving – China didn’t develop a notation system detailed enough to allow someone to accurately recreate a completely unfamiliar piece of music until well after the sixth century!)

High Mountains and Flowing Water is one of the most famous folk songs of China. And, fun aside, the story of its composition, and the friendship between the composer, guqin master Bo Ya, and Zhong Ziqi, a woodsman, is practically the ur-example of the concept of zhiji or zhiyin. Given how CQL has embedded those terms into the MDZS fandom, I just had to throw the reference in… although, ironically, in the novel, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are practically a deconstruction of the concept of zhiji. Which I suspect is intentional on the part of the author. Communication is hard, and love is something that takes active effort – romantic, platonic, or otherwise.

As for Lan Yi… for the record, I understand that CQL lifted that character and gave her a much more active role than “minor worldbuilding detail for color”; this has nothing to do with that. I just needed a Lan character to be part of the backstory, and she’s one of the only names available! Bunnies see Wei Wuxian’s relationship with her as similar to his canon one with Wen Qing, with a slight twist in that she’s old enough to be his mother. She’s the female sect leader of the Lan and the creator of Chord Assassination. I don’t think guidao would give her much pause! (Also significant is that she’s the only other character aside from Wei Wuxian and Wen Qing that we know of in canon who created a technique. Suggesting she’d likely share the innovative mentality that sets Wei Wuxian apart.) So since I had to tweak who Wei Wuxian’s contemporaries in the Lan would be for this fic… I decided to run with it! Team Give Wei Wuxian A Terrifying Auntie Who Encourages Him!

And yes, Jiang Cheng was very right to be worried; Lan Yi had a cutthroat streak and was absolutely plotting to steal the young genius for her own sect.

Shell game: referencing the carnival game of hiding a token under one of three cups (or traditionally shells, hence the name), moving the cups around, then having someone guess which one the token is under. It seemed a more Lan Wangji sort of reference than “sorry, your princess is not in this castle”! (Even if Wei Wuxian would find the latter hilarious.)

Li Bai was a Chinese poet who lived in the early to mid 700s. He’s considered one of the most important poets in Chinese literature, rivaled pretty much only by his friend Du Fu. Li Bai in particular was known for styling himself as an adventurer and writing poetry about celebrating the pleasures of friendship, the depth of nature, solitude, and the joys of drinking wine… so yes, I imagine Wei Wuxian would enjoy his work!

(Fun aside, the poetry book is also a vestigial remnant of that original plotbunny featuring Lan Wangji using his knowledge of classic poetry traditions to communicate. The problem was that writing that would require me to learn said traditions… and I was writing this right in the middle of the final push to finish my dissertation. That was not gonna happen. Doesn’t help that I plain cannot wrap my brain around poetry…)

The water-walking is actually taken from a scene in the SVSSS donghua; there’s no mention of it in MDZS… but then again, there’s no scene in MDZS where it would have come up (and the novel doesn’t bother much with “cultivation coolness” scenes anyway), so it might be a thing… and if it were, it seems like it would be a Yunmeng thing. So I included it for fun… and yes, Wei Wuxian is absolutely showing off.

Fun little language detail: according to some studies, during a conversation it’s fairly normal to only actually hear 50-70% of what someone actually says. Everything else is lost in mumbling, momentary distraction, focus on our own response, etc. We just don’t notice, for the same reason that we don’t actually hear what our native language sounds like unless we resort to tricks like repeating a word or phrase until it loses meaning: the language comprehension part of the brain overwrites what we actually heard through our ears with what we probably should have heard (plus context, body language, and lip reading). So yes, there is much more to conversation than vocabulary and grammar!

For the curious: a vocabulary of roughly five hundred words is “beginner.” For fluency, you need about two thousand plus.

And I am absolutely cheating with how fast Wei Wuxian is learning. My justification is that Wei Wuxian is just that quick learning new things, and Authorial Convenience. And Cultivation (which I will get into later).

Speaking of, a side note: since I’m writing in English, I’m trying to lean on things that make English tricky for new learners, like definite and indefinite articles (or articles at all!). Which are not Chinese language errors, but, well. Translation Convention!

Necessary caveat, I know nothing about talismans/lingfu; the explanation here is created from just what I picked up from reading the entry on lingfu in Wikipedia and my knowledge of the writing system. Which I admit is a little ironic, given how hard I cringe when someone decides to depict Wei Wuxian’s skill with talismans by talking about modifying radicals. (I just… no. That is not how the writing system works. That’s the same as writing brake instead of break, they’re instead of their, or knight instead of night. If you change the radical, you are writing a completely different and unrelated word!)

Chapter Text

Not many people could tell when Professor Lan was brooding – including Wen Yuan half the time, if he was going to be honest. But when he poked his nose into the professor’s office to let him know that Wen Yuan was up and the main room was open again (and to ask about using the shower – they should probably work out a rotation for that, or someone was going to end up getting an embarrassing eyeful eventually, and it would probably be him) and found Lan Wangji just… sitting there, instead of working? Well, even Jin Ling would have noticed something was wrong.

Actually, that wasn’t really fair. For all his efforts to imitate an emotional porcupine, Jin Ling could be amazingly sensitive. He just hated admitting to it.

Wen Yuan hesitated in the doorway, noting the papers spread out over the desk and a second cup of tea, half-full still and, going by the lack of steam, already gone cold.

His stomach flipped uneasily. “Did… something happen?”

Lan Wangji looked at him. “…I once wondered if Wei Wuxian had been to these mountains in his own time,” he said after a moment. “I should have considered that thought more carefully.”

Wen Yuan sighed in relief. For a minute there, he’d been sure that something had gone down with the break-ins that Nie Mingjue had been investigating or something; he couldn’t think of any other reason for someone to visit the Jingshi at this hour…

Then the implications sank in, and he stiffened, looking at the papers on the desk again. One was the painting he’d been admiring the night before, but the others…

Oh.

Looking up from the timeline, he swallowed. “So… he knows now?”

Lan Wangji nodded gravely.

Ow. Okay, no wonder the professor had been brooding. Wen Yuan knew he’d been worrying over the best way to break that particular news. Given that this obviously hadn’t been planned… “How did it go?” he asked quietly.

Uncharacteristically, Lan Wangji hesitated. “He… said he needed time to think.”

Well, yeah. No kidding. That was one heck of a thing to wrap your mind around. “I’ll go check on him,” Wen Yuan said.

Lan Wangji looked at him. “He may not welcome company,” he warned.

Wen Yuan nodded. “I understand that. And if he doesn’t want me there, I’ll leave,” he promised. “I just… want to make sure that he knows he’s not alone, you know? That we’re here, too.”

Lan Wangji considered his words for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. Permission obtained, Wen Yuan slipped back out of the office and started searching.

Wei Wuxian wasn’t in the guest room, which wasn’t really a surprise. It was a nice room, but it was borrowed, not really his own. Not to mention, Wei Wuxian didn’t strike him as the sort of person to retreat indoors when he wanted to think – especially after the man had been locked in a lab for a week!

But when he looked around the garden, he didn’t see Wei Wuxian anywhere – not even when he followed the little footpaths that led to the quiet nooks partially sheltered from the main house by the greenery, which he knew Lan Wangji liked to use for meditating sometimes. He even checked the rocks out in the pond, because… well, if you didn’t want to be disturbed and had the ability to walk on water…

No luck.

Wen Yuan hesitated, trying to consider the options. He didn’t think Wei Wuxian would have gone out wandering in broad daylight; he’d taken their security concerns pretty seriously so far. Although he might be second-guessing that now. Which could get very messy.

Maybe he’d just gone to the Cold Springs? They were a good place to sit and think…

Just in case… “Wei Wuxian?” he called, a little tentatively. Because if the man was here and had just hidden himself really well, well, that was probably a hint that company really wouldn’t be welcome, but…

“A’Yuan?”

He jumped, looking around wildly… then, as his ears caught up with his brain, he looked up.

Wei Wuxian waved at him from the roof of the Jingshi.

On the rooftop. That was so like something straight out of a xianxia show that Wen Yuan found himself looking for cameras and wires. If it weren’t for the fact that he knew Wei Wuxian hadn’t seen any xianxia shows, he’d think the man was riffing off them on purpose!

…Oh man. Now he was seriously looking forward to introducing Wei Wuxian to xianxia. He’d probably find the whole genre hilarious.

Although, as far as hanging out on rooftops went… Wen Yuan did have to admit that, if you had to sit down and process bad news, there were definitely worse places for it than a sunny rooftop looking out over a pretty garden. 

Of course, it also presented a bit of a problem…

Wen Yuan hesitated, eyeing the railing on the veranda and the distance between it and the eaves, and wrestled with himself for a minute before he gave in and admitted that yes, he really was going to try it. It probably wasn’t even the stupidest thing he’d ever done!

Then again, he’d jumped in front of a bunch of panicking security officers holding guns. The “stupid” bar was kind of embarrassingly high at this point.

Getting onto the railing was definitely tricky, and he was very grateful that he’d always had a good sense of balance. Luckily, once he managed to straighten up, the eave was close enough that he could reach out and up and grab the edge.

Now for the hard part. I got this!

He jumped.

“Hyuuurrrrrrrraaaaaauuuuugh…!”

Uh-oh. He’d managed to get his chin up over the eave into a full pull-up, but his arms were refusing to extend up any higher and he hadn’t considered that the eave being far enough out over the veranda to grab meant it was also too far out from the wall for him to kick off it and there wasn’t anything he could actually properly grip on the flat roof tiles which meant he didn’t really have a solid hold and okay, maybe he didn’t got this…

Wei Wuxian laughed, and then strong hands gripped Wen Yuan under the arms, providing just enough lift to let him lever himself up and get a leg over the edge. At which point Wen Yuan didn’t so much climb up as flop, pitching forward to land face-down on the tiles.

“Owww,” he observed. Seriously, how did Professor Lan make stuff like that look so easy? No wonder Lan Jingyi complained about false advertising!

Wei Wuxian laughed again at his groaning, ruffling his hair, and Wen Yuan mentally shook himself, because right – there was a reason he’d put himself through that.

Catching his breath again, Wen Yuan levered himself up onto his hands and knees and clambered up the slope of the roof and away from the edge until he could sit down next to Wei Wuxian.

“So… are you okay?” he asked tentatively. And then flushed, because… augh, what a stupid question to start with!

Wei Wuxian blinked at him, and then Wen Yuan felt silly for a different reason – because of course he wouldn’t know slangy terms like okay yet, Lan Wangji didn’t talk that way.

But his tone must have conveyed… well, enough of what he meant, because after a moment, the man chuckled, and if it was rueful… well. Yeah. “It…” He pursed his lips, then shrugged. “Explains much things.”

Which… yeah. It would, wouldn’t it? There were probably a million little things – and not so little ones! – that just… hadn’t made any sense, all this time, because Wei Wuxian had no way of knowing what expectations wouldn’t even apply anymore, because he had no frame of reference for how much things could have changed.

Still… Wen Yuan slanted a look at the man again. When he’d first seen Wei Wuxian on the rooftop, he’d been sitting in the lotus position – he’d probably been meditating. But he hadn’t bothered going back to it after helping Wen Yuan climb up; now he was just sitting, arms wrapped loosely around his knees as he looked out over the garden and the trees beyond it.

He didn’t actually look all that upset, just thoughtful, which… in a strange way, that made Wen Yuan feel even worse about the whole mess. Because Wei Wuxian was pretty resilient, sure – he’d held up through a lot of stuff already, when Wen Yuan was pretty sure he would have flipped out multiple times over. But it wasn’t about resilience; it was that Wei Wuxian deserved the chance to just… get upset, because something awful had happened to him and it wasn’t fair!

Although he was pretty sure Wei Wuxian would just laugh about the fair part, because, well, the world didn’t care about fair. But that didn’t make the not-fair parts suck any less!

“Do you want a hug?” Wen Yuan blurted.

And then flushed, feeling like a fool, when Wei Wuxian blinked at him. Of course he wouldn’t know the word for hug, it would never have come up; Lan Wangji was way more approachable than a lot of people assumed at first glance, but he wasn’t a really tactile person either. For that matter, Wen Yuan wasn’t sure that Middle Chinese had a word for hugging, or at least not one that didn’t carry about twelve different layers of fraught societal expectations.

But people were people, and under all the weird twists cultures could cook up, some instincts stayed the same. So… Feeling incredibly foolish, but determined to see his offer through, Wen Yuan opened his arms in invitation.

Wei Wuxian looked startled for a moment. Then he chuckled and leaned over, wrapping an arm around Wen Yuan’s shoulders.

They ended up more sort of leaning against each other than hug-hugging, but that was fine. It was warm and comfortable and companionable, which meant it served its purpose.

Wei Wuxian didn’t seem to feel like talking, which was understandable. He was still learning the language, after all, and this was… well, a lot. But he seemed to enjoy the company, so… Wen Yuan figured he’d gotten that part right, at least.

Of course, they couldn’t stay up there forever. Actually, Wen Yuan was pretty sure it had been less than an hour before his stomach very noisily reminded him that he hadn’t had breakfast yet.

Wei Wuxian snickered at his disgruntled expression, wagging a teasingly chiding finger at him before standing up and stretching lazily. Wen Yuan made a face at the man and did not get up; he’d already lost any pretense of dignity anyway, so he just scootched down the roof tiles on his butt until his feet were dangling over the eaves and he could look down properly.

Um. That had not looked like nearly so long a drop from the bottom as it did from the top.

Wei Wuxian chuckled at his sudden discomfiture – which, okay, Wen Yuan was honest enough to admit that he probably looked like a kitten rethinking its tree-climbing plans after it had already gotten to the top. Then—

Oh. Wow. That wasn’t anything like the wirework and green-screen acrobatics from xianxia shows. Except for maybe the really high-budget stuff… but even that tended to slip into gravity? Momentum? Velocity? Never heard of them! Which was fine in shows, suspension of disbelief was a thing…

Wei Wuxian didn’t float. He just… hopped off, twisted in the air like a cat, and landed on the veranda like… like he’d just fallen almost four meters and it wasn’t a big deal.

I want to learn how to do that!

Taking a deep breath half to steady himself and half to remind himself firmly that now was not the time, Wen Yuan scooted forward until he was only barely perched on the edge of the roof. Making himself focus just on Wei Wuxian’s inviting smile, he gulped, and pushed off.

Wei Wuxian caught him easily, which was impressive – Wen Yuan knew (hoped!) he still had a growth spurt or two to go, but he wasn’t exactly tiny, and while he didn’t do sports outside the odd pickup game, he was athletic and that made him heavy for his size. But Wei Wuxian didn’t even stumble, just deftly turned as he caught Wen Yuan so that some of that downward momentum bled off as angular momentum instead, and then Wen Yuan was standing on the veranda, with barely a thump as his feet touched down.

He opened his mouth to thank the man, and started laughing instead. “That was fun!”

Wei Wuxian laughed, obviously amused by his enthusiasm. Then the man hesitated, eyes flicking to the door of the main room.

Lan Wangji stood in the open doorway, watching them. His face was set and stony, but Wen Yuan could see the way he was carefully keeping his hands tucked behind his back; that was uncertainty, not disapproval.

Well, mostly not disapproval, although Wen Yuan suspected he was in for a lecture about climbing around on rooftops.

Wei Wuxian just grinned, bouncing a little. “Breakfast?” he asked, eyes big and wide and hopeful, and Wen Yuan had to bite back a laugh. That was silly, and absolutely, one hundred percent intentionally so.

Dealing with Wei Wuxian really drove home the whole lesson Professor Lan liked to give about people of the past being people.

Lan Wangji huffed at the theatrics, but he also relaxed slightly, apparently relieved that Wei Wuxian seemed to be holding no grudge against him as the bearer of bad news.

To be honest, Wen Yuan had sort of expected at least some awkwardness – but Wei Wuxian simply headed into the main room and started laying out the things for breakfast; apparently Lan Wangji had spent the time they’d been up on the roof rearranging the room to its usual configuration. Since Wei Wuxian seemed determined to carry on as if it were a normal morning… Wen Yuan mentally shrugged and went to prepare the tea.

As he was pouring it out into the cups, Wei Wuxian suddenly began laughing. Startled, he looked up to see that the man was grinning at Lan Wangji’s guqin on its stand. “What is it?” he asked.

Wei Wuxian grinned at him, then pointed imperiously at Lan Wangji as he set the bowl of zhou on the table next to the youtiao. “I was correct!” he announced, sounding very pleased with himself.

Lan Wangji straightened, staring back in a silent request for clarification.

Still grinning, Wei Wuxian bounced across the room to poke the professor in the chest playfully. “You are Gusu Lan,” he said.

Wen Yuan blinked, trying to remember where… Oh! Right – the first day, Wei Wuxian had asked something about Gusu Lan, when he’d been trying to figure out more about where he was and who they were…

Wait. “I thought Cloud Recesses was established in the Tang?” He looked at Lan Wangji. “But if he knew about it…”

“Do not assume,” Lan Wangji reminded him, and then hesitated. “The evidence is suggestive, however.” He seemed to think for a moment – then, unexpectedly, he turned and walked out the back door to the veranda. Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian blinked at each other, taken aback, but Lan Wangji quickly returned, carrying a roll of paper. When he spread it out on the table, Wen Yuan realized that it was the rough timeline he’d made to illustrate how much time had passed.

“Wei Wuxian,” he said, and then paused, obviously trying to properly frame his question. Finally, he asked, “You were… when?”

Wei Wuxian blinked, then looked at the timeline, apparently doing some calculations in his head. After a moment, he tapped the line marking the official beginning of the Sui Dynasty. “This – twenty-five years…” He hesitated. “In front?”

“Before,” Wen Yuan suggested. Which, wow. Kind of wild to think about living that close to something that was such a big piece of history… and yes, he knew that it wasn’t really that odd in the grand scheme of things, by that scale they were pretty close to some huge events, but…

Wow. There had been so much going on in that time period. Hou Jing’s usurpation of the Liang dynasty in the southern regions, and then the Chen dynasty, not to mention the whole fall of the Northern Zhou and the rise of Yang Jian to become Emperor Wen of the Sui and the reunification of China – for that matter, the original Yiling Laozu legend was all tied up in Yang Jian’s story, the whole legend about the future Emperor Wen being raised by an immortal ascendant. Not to mention all the stories about this or that warlord’s angry ghost rising up for vengeance. All of that would have been just starting!

Although… figuring out how everything fit together was probably going to be pretty hard. The records from that era were messy, just because there’d been so many wars and power plays and family feuds all happening at once. Most history books just threw up their metaphorical hands and sort of skimmed over the details…

“Oh!” Wen Yuan blurted, almost forgetting to put the teapot down before he dove for the pile of bags he’d left in the corner – he hadn’t unpacked the previous evening, since they were still figuring out how to arrange three people in a house that was designed for one. Grabbing the pack full of books that Nie Mingjue had complained so much about the previous day, he quickly pulled out the textbooks, burrowing his way down to the bottom of the bag.

“Wen Yuan.” Lan Wangji’s tone somehow managed to be half curious and half chiding without actually changing his inflection in any way that Wen Yuan could actually put his finger on.

“Just a minute, I… Got it!” Turning, he set the book on the end of the table, away from the food, and grinned at Wei Wuxian’s curious look. “This is for you,” he explained, giving the book a push to slide it towards the cultivator.

Well, slide it a little. It was big. And thick. And heavy. Which, well, that was to be expected from any book that actually deserved to be titled A Complete History of the Middle Kingdom.

“I researched it,” he explained to Lan Wangji’s skeptical stare, as Wei Wuxian picked the book up, eyes widening at the heft of it. “The poetry helps, but it only goes so far. But this was written for laypeople, they were careful about making the language accessible – I thought it would be a good place to start him on really reading. And it’s not in-depth,” of course it wasn’t, the thickest book in the world couldn’t cover a solid four thousand years of recorded history without some abridging, “but it’s accurate and well-written. And…”

And there was so much history to cover, if Wei Wuxian was going to get caught up on how the world had changed. Right now, he didn’t even know enough to know what questions he should be asking! And… it didn’t feel right to make him rely just on the two of them for answers. This way, he could start getting the broad strokes of the story in his own time and at his own pace.

Granted, the book really was a bit much. There was no need to go all the way back to the Shang dynasty just to catch Wei Wuxian up on what had happened since his time. But there weren’t a lot of histories that went from his time to the present, most of them started with the Tang or the Song and sort of assumed you already knew the stuff that had come before that, and none of them were as well-reviewed as this one.

Besides – it would be really interesting to see what Wei Wuxian thought of what they said about his own history today, compared to how he had learned it.

“Mn.” Lan Wangji didn’t seem convinced, but he let it go, glancing back at Wen Yuan’s book bag instead. “You have others?”

“A few,” Wen Yuan admitted, because once he’d had the idea, he’d just sort of… naturally expanded on it. And he’d been ordering the poetry book and the history book anyway, and they’d given him a pretty good budget and free rein, so…

Lan Wangji nodded thoughtfully as Wen Yuan pulled out the other books he’d gotten. A world history – because beyond a certain point you needed a wider knowledge of the world to understand what had happened in China. A “How the World Works” book, along with one on the great inventions of the world – hopefully the two together would make for a pretty good introduction to modern science and technology, even for someone who hadn’t even encountered some of it yet. And…

Lan Wangji side-eyed him. Judgingly.

Wen Yuan blinked innocently, still holding the xianxia novel. “I figured he’d get a laugh out of it. And you have said that understanding the stories people tell is important to understanding the way they think about things.” Not to mention that after playing catch-up on so much history and technological development… well, it would probably be good for Wei Wuxian to get to be the expert on something.

Yes, Wen Yuan was absolutely fantasizing about cultivation lessons and he was not ashamed to admit it. To himself, at least.

Lan Wangji huffed, but he let Wen Yuan add the novel to the stack of references. Probably because he wanted to know about cultivating, too. Not to mention that he’d been the one to recommend that particular series to Wen Yuan in the first place, so!

Although he kept it to the side, because it was definitely going to need its own separate explanation before they could get into kibitzing it.

Wei Wuxian made a startled sound, drawing their attention, and… Oh. He’d found the maps inside the front cover of the history book – a series of maps of China produced across the centuries, culminating in a detailed geopolitical map of the present day… followed by a glorious, glossy, full color, high definition, foldout photograph of the region taken by satellite.

Oh yeah. That was absolutely worth staring at. Wen Yuan had stared, too, the first time he’d opened the book and seen it. Grinning, Wen Yuan moved over to sit next to the man—

“Wen Yuan.” Lan Wangji looked pointedly at the breakfast things laid out.

Oh. Right. No books or talking during meals. Although…

Wen Yuan looked pointedly at the timeline still spread out on the table, then raised his eyebrows at the professor. You started it. “Just this once. He has to have so many questions!”

Lan Wangji’s expression didn’t change, but he could feel the chagrin – especially when Wei Wuxian, clearly sensing that the professor was wavering, turned a wide-eyed, hopeful look on him.

Lan Wangji sighed and began portioning out the zhou. Which was basically permission, and Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian traded grins when he wasn’t looking. Victory!

Rising from the table, Lan Wangji began gathering the dishes, waving Wei Wuxian back to his seat when the man made as if to get up and help. Wei Wuxian hesitated for a moment, but ultimately the lure of the books was too strong; by the time Lan Wangji returned for the last of the dishes, Wei Wuxian and Wen Yuan were bent over his new books again, just as they had been for the entire meal.

Lan Wangji huffed, and did not smile at the sight. So far as he could tell, they weren’t actually reading anything – which, to be fair, would be a quite intensive project at Wei Wuxian’s current level of language acquisition, no matter how accessible the text might be. But they weren’t just looking at pictures, either.

Or rather, they had been looking at pictures, until they hit the chapter in the great inventions book on the development of printing. Now they were working their way through the diagrams together, Wei Wuxian studying the sketches and schematics with a keen-eyed fascination. Which… was not surprising, really. It had been obvious from the moment he’d carefully dismantled and then reassembled that mechanical pencil that the man had a sharply analytical mind and a fascination with figuring out how things worked. It had shown in his discussion of lingfu the previous night; he had a very technical approach to understanding how each part functioned.

It made Lan Wangji wonder. Was the mystique and mysticism associated with lingfu simply the result of outside observers attempting to understand a complex set of skills? Or had Wei Wuxian been unusual even among cultivators, with his openness to new ideas leading him to look for ways to innovate beyond the accepted and traditional?

Wen Yuan turned the page, revealing a full-spread diagram of a Gutenberg-style printing press, and Lan Wangji had to fight to keep his expression still at the bright-eyed enthusiasm of Wei Wuxian’s reaction. Wen Yuan had discussed the idea of getting histories and other references to help introduce Wei Wuxian to the modern world, but Lan Wangji hadn’t realized the boy had actually researched and acquired some. But clearly he had chosen well.

And… in hindsight, it was fortunate that he had chosen to acquire them in advance. Having them immediately available was convenient, yes, but more importantly, the fact that Wen Yuan had immediately provided them was proof that they had intended to reveal the truth to Wei Wuxian eventually, even if he had ultimately beaten them to it. Hopefully that proof would help restore the credibility that Lan Wangji’s hesitation had cost them.

Wei Wuxian was no fool, after all. Surely he understood how difficult it would be to broach such a topic when their ability to communicate was so limited.

Setting aside the last of the cups on the rack to dry, Lan Wangji considered what to do next. He had already sent brief messages to Wen Qing and his uncle, informing them of the morning’s development; doubtless both of them were anxiously awaiting further details, and to consult regarding their next steps…

But he was in no temper for any I-told-you-so’s. Justified or not. Perhaps especially if justified.

Lan Wangji paused, considering that last thought, and mentally shook his head. That was his answer, then. If he was sufficiently out of sorts that he could not master his own temper, then it would be best to avoid entering into what would no doubt be intense and potentially confrontational discussions until he had regained his equilibrium.

With that in mind… Finished tidying the kitchen, Lan Wangji crossed the main room, careful not to disturb the pair still engrossed in the books at the table, and headed for his own room to change. His own morning routine had been thoroughly disrupted by the events of the morning; getting his workout in, even belatedly, would help settle his mood.

He did hesitate briefly as he pulled a workout shirt over his head, when his eye landed on the book he’d been reading the night before. The better part of his time these past few weeks, he had spent on familiarizing himself with language education theory and researching answers to Wei Wuxian’s questions. But he’d been using his evening reading to refresh his knowledge of the disunified era, hoping to establish a better understanding in his mind of the cultural and historic context that Wei Wuxian came from. However…

Wen Yuan was correct that Wei Wuxian’s most pressing need, at the moment, was to acquire a general understanding of the course of history between his time and their own, to better understand the how and why of the world’s changes. But… eventually, the man would surely want to know what had become of his own world – the people and places that he had known personally.

That would be tricky; the records of the mid-500s were sketchy at best, even with the discovery of the archives in the Mogao Caves of Dunhuang, with all the attendant issues of retrospective historiography, myth-making, post-hoc legitimization and vendettas that came with a history written by the victors. The simple fact that Lan Wangji had not recognized the names Yunmeng Jiang or Gusu Lan was already a clear sign that the historical record was incomplete.

Finding answers for Wei Wuxian would likely involve extensive research; it would not be done easily or quickly. And it would require Wei Wuxian’s knowledge and assistance. But… perhaps he could start the process now, at least in terms of building a framework of what was known from which they could identify the gaps in their knowledge.

Nodding inwardly to himself, Lan Wangji finished lacing his shoes and stepped out into the garden for his workout.

After the upheavals of the morning, he would have preferred to go running; he found the steady rhythm meditative and the combination of physical effort and mental quiet conducive to sifting through disordered thoughts. But he’d done a run the day before… and by now it was late enough in the morning for other runners to be out on the trails, which was less than appealing for his purposes and preferences.

So he went through his strength routine instead, although allowing for his unsettled mental state, he opted to keep to the simpler moves. Still, it served its purpose. By the time he’d finished his routine, his muscles were burning and his mind was clear and calm as he settled into the first Tai Chi stance.

Movement caught his eye as he did so; glancing over, he saw that Wen Yuan had joined him in the garden, as he often did when visiting. A second glance showed Wei Wuxian sitting on the veranda, watching them with interest; apparently they had decided to take a break from the books for a while. He seemed curious about the slow sequence of stances, which… made sense, actually. Tai Chi might have roots in older forms, but the style itself had developed in the 1500s at the earliest.

In a rare moment of sudden impulsiveness, Lan Wangji beckoned with one hand, inviting the cultivator to join them. Wei Wuxian blinked, then grinned, hopping down into the garden and assuming the first stance along with them.

Then Lan Wangji centered. Settled. Breathed.

Moved.

Wen Yuan kept pace quite ably. No great surprise; he’d been practicing Tai Chi before he’d met Lan Wangji, after Wen Qing’s brother had suggested it as a way for a frightened boy whose life had been uprooted too frequently and in too quick succession to work through emotions that he wasn’t ready or able to verbalize yet. Wei Wuxian was more hesitant, moving a half-heartbeat behind them as he watched their moves, but his movements were smooth and steady and confident, the unfamiliarity of the stances offset by perfect muscle control and an easy knowledge of his own body.

And, it seemed, an intuitive understanding of the flow of motion. With each shift in stance, that momentary hesitation grew less and less, until, by the end of the sequence, only a sharp-eyed and experienced observer would notice the subtle flicker of lag between their motions and his.

Although… there was something odd in how he watched them. At first, he had simply been curious. But even as he settled into the rhythm of the stances, the intrigued look in his eyes… shifted, as his gaze flicked back and forth between Lan Wangji and Wen Yuan. He seemed almost puzzled, as if trying to figure something out.

As they finished the sequence, Lan Wangji hesitated, wondering if the man would say something. But Wei Wuxian simply found a seat on one of the decorative stones, settling unprompted into the lotus position and slipping easily into meditation.

Lan Wangji bit back an unseemly and inappropriate sense of disappointment. He had no particular right to expect Wei Wuxian to share every thought with him, not when the man was clearly deep in contemplation… and under normal circumstances, he should have been irritated at the thought of someone interrupting his focus by speaking, not frustrated that he had not!

Ridiculous! he chided himself, and resolutely settled down to meditate, determined to focus.

After several deep breaths, he managed to call back the steady mindset that was both present and detached, focused and open, that the routine established. After so many years of practice, it was one he could slip into readily, even distracted. Then he called back to mind the visualization from the exercise – although for him, it was as much kinesthetic as visual, a sense of humming warmth and light. He had gathered it together through motion; now in stillness he let it flow through him, energizing him for another day’s work—

Wen Yuan yelped. “Hey!”

Startled, Lan Wangji blinked the world back into focus. And then blinked again. Wen Yuan had sat facing both of them, so that they’d formed a small circle for meditating…

Except that now Wei Wuxian was standing in front of the boy, one finger hovering over the boy’s forehead. The man’s other hand was on his hip, and he was giving Wen Yuan the chiding look of a disappointed teacher.

Wen Yuan rubbed a small red mark on his forehead. “What was that for?” he asked, more confused than complaining.

Rather than answering, Wei Wuxian looked at Lan Wangji. “You are his teacher,” he said.

Lan Wangji could only blink, at a loss. Clearly, Wei Wuxian was expecting something from him… but he had no idea what. Had he perhaps miscommunicated something when he’d identified himself as Wen Yuan’s mentor? Or possibly it was less miscommunication and more changed expectations regarding what a mentor would be expected to teach…

Something of his confusion must have shown in his bearing; after a moment, Wei Wuxian tilted his head slightly, his expectant expression shifting, becoming intrigued, as if Lan Wangji’s unexpected hesitation had somehow confirmed some unlikely suspicion.

Then the man sighed dramatically and turned back to Wen Yuan. “Not here,” he scolded, poking the boy in the forehead again. Then he lowered his finger—

Except that something about the motion wasn’t simply moving, but pulling, as if his finger was drawing something else down with it…

—and stopped at Wen Yuan’s lower stomach, just beneath the navel. “Put qi here,” he said sternly.

And Wen Yuan…

Wen Yuan’s eyes had flown wide, his jaw hanging slack with shock as he stared at Wei Wuxian’s finger. Then he looked up to meet Lan Wangji’s eyes.

“I felt that,” he breathed.

Oh.

Oh.

Tai Chi was rooted in much older qigong philosophies and practices. He knew that; it was why he’d always diligently practiced the meditative and visualization aspects, rather than simply approaching it as physical exercise alone.

But somehow, he hadn’t connected that to the realization that cultivation was real. Hadn’t considered that the psychosomatic feeling of warmth and energy that accompanied his visualization exercises… might not be entirely psychosomatic.

The discipline was… incomplete. It had to be, or else cultivation would not be thought the stuff of folklore and films. Something was missing between the modern practice and true cultivation, some key step or concept…

And Wei Wuxian had that missing knowledge.

He could teach someone to cultivate.

Wen Qing exhaled and didn’t even care that the quaver in it was loud enough for the microphone to pick it up. The only people on the call were Lan Wangji, who looked equally shaken despite having been the one to deliver the news, and Lan Qiren… who honestly looked like his whole being had blue-screened on him.

“I’ll be honest,” she admitted. “I don’t know if the idea is thrilling or terrifying.”

Really, it was both. Thrilling because it opened up so many possibilities. Terrifying because those possibilities came with an equal number of sheer unknowns.

Not the least of which was the burning question: how had cultivation been lost in the first place?

It was easy to overlook when it had been just a matter of Wei Wuxian doing impossible things; the man was already a living impossibility in so many ways, what was one more? But thinking of it as an art, a set of skills that could be taught and learned…

People didn’t just forget about useful skills!

Then she had to huff at herself inside her own head. Because of course people did. Either because no one bothered to mention little details like of course you use salt water to make concrete, everyone knows that, or the art was restricted enough, by secrecy or limitations of access, that the loss of just a few key people to misfortune or misadventure – or the scheming of those who didn’t want such abilities to exist outside their control – could send the whole system crashing down. See the ongoing efforts to figure out how Damascus steel had actually been made.

But it also raised the uneasy possibility of some unknown issue or complication that had led people to choose to abandon it as not worth the attendant risks. What then?

On the screen, Lan Qiren visibly shook himself. “We must consider the implications carefully,” he said. “The rest of the project can rightfully argue that to pursue this would violate Doctor Wen’s moratorium on research without consent.”

She could only make out the barest hint of pursing on Lan Wangji’s lips. Given the man’s normal stony lack of expression, that alone spoke volumes. “Professors Yao and Liu consider any form of interaction to which they are not invited proof of illegitimate research.”

Wen Qing carefully did not snort at that. The man was not exactly wrong.

Although she did have to grant that they were walking a very delicate line when it came to consent. After all, they were learning things from Wei Wuxian with every interaction; it was impossible not to. Failure to observe and record would have the scientific community up in arms about unscientific and loss of priceless data. But the act of recording could equally be condemned as a violation of privacy and consent.

Thus far, Lan Wangji had threaded that needle by keeping careful and copious notes on everything he learned, because that was the academically responsible thing to do. But it was also deeply invasive, and so he was withholding those notes until Wei Wuxian had the opportunity to review them for himself and decide what contents he did and did not want bandied about as public information. As with all compromises, the end result was that no one was happy with the outcome, but – for the time being – they could live with it.

Not that you would know that, listening to the whinging of certain parties.

At least Wei Wuxian knew, now – and she could only thank every benevolent ancestor watching over them that he had taken the discovery so well. For all her warnings to Lan Wangji about finding rotted axe handles, she hadn’t actually expected the man to figure everything out on his own! But it did mean they were one step closer to making their way out of the ethical conundrum they’d found themselves in.

Lan Qiren harrumphed – although he did not, she noted, actually contradict Lan Wangji’s observation, a clear sign that the bellyaching of the more entitled scholars on the project were trying even his admittedly limited patience. “And of course it is difficult to recruit an ethnographer or other cultural specialist to the project when I cannot explain why their expertise would be required,” he grumbled.

Wen Qing stared at the screen. Lan Wangji blinked.

Lan Qiren bristled at their disbelief. “Having reviewed the project and the revised research proposals to date, it has become quite obvious that the current makeup of the project is inadequate, given the changed circumstances. Many of the specialties of the current project members no longer apply, while we lack researchers with expertise in necessary fields. Lan Xichen and I have been creating an updated research prospectus to guide the search for new project members, but there are… obstacles.”

Wen Qing carefully did not let her lips twitch with dry amusement. Obstacles. That was certainly one way of putting it. Obstacles starting with we can’t tell people why we want them and even if we could tell them they wouldn’t believe us.

Still, she allowed herself a sigh of relief. She might have her own issues, serious issues, with the way the immediate aftermath of Wei Wuxian’s awakening had been handled. But she recognized that Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen were excellent administrators. Now that they were finally taking the implications of Wei Wuxian being a living, breathing person seriously, she thought she could trust them to create a project plan in line with all the best practices in the field.

Although she still intended to review the results very carefully.

“Has anyone withdrawn from the project?” Lan Wangji asked.

Wen Qing huffed. They should be so fortunate.

Lan Qiren was far too dignified to grimace, but his beard twitched ever so slightly, as if he very much might want to do so. “Some have chosen to step back from direct involvement with the project, as their own research focus is no longer appropriate. But all have chosen to remain involved in some capacity.”

No surprise there. No successful academic would simply give up a connection to a project that was already famous and about to achieve in-the-history-books notoriety, no matter how mismatched their personal research might be.

Of course, the high profile of the Yiling Laozu project was its own obstacle. People would notice if they started reaching out to bring new experts and consultants in, especially after Lan Qiren’s infamously hard-nosed selection process for the original research group. Notice, and wonder. And talk.

“Has there been any progress on making plans about going public?” she asked. After all, they couldn’t sit on the truth of what had happened forever. The world was going to find out eventually. Better it be on their terms, because she doubted that the general public would take that revelation with the easy equanimity Wei Wuxian himself had.

And she suspected the man was not nearly so calm as he sought to appear.

Lan Qiren paused. “I have discussed the matter with Nie Mingjue. It seems his brother has some expertise in that area.” His lips pursed in a grouchy moue of dissatisfaction. “I am… dubious of the merits of relying on a dilettante for such serious matters… but needs must.”

Wen Qing had to sympathize. She’d met Nie Mingjue’s younger brother a few times in passing – usually when a particularly messy campus incident had kept Nie Mingjue on the job longer than expected, and Nie Huaisang called to whine about it. As a first impression, she had to admit it was… less than confidence-inducing.

On the other hand, one could make the argument that when it came to managing public opinion, a social butterfly was exactly the sort of person with the skillset they needed. And if Nie Huaisang came off as a career troublemaker… Well. As she’d noted with Wei Wuxian himself, troublemakers tended to be far more adaptable than those who expected the world to follow predictable rules.

More importantly, they needed someone with a better feel for the pulse of the general public than a bunch of cloistered hyper-academics who preferred research articles to opinion columns, but the same obstacles to bringing in ethnographers and other cultural experts applied here as well. People would sit up and pay attention if a famously controversial research project suddenly started headhunting for a PR manager. Which meant that they had to rely on personal connections… and for most of them, their social circles just consisted of still more hyper-academics. At least she could trust that, little brother or not, Nie Mingjue took the security situation seriously enough that if he’d recommended Nie Huaisang, then he genuinely thought the man could, in fact, handle the job. It wouldn’t exactly do them any favors when the inevitable accusations of nepotism started pouring in, but between Lan Qiren’s inclusion of his nephews and Wen Yuan’s participation, that ship had sailed before the thawing had even started.

“In the meantime,” Lan Qiren continued, “I would like an update on your vaccination timeline, Doctor Wen.”

“Wei Wuxian just received a significant emotional shock,” she answered, pulling her thoughts back into order. “I would rather give him some time to process that before I subject his immune system to additional stress. That said, I think we’re in a good position now to start establishing the conceptual groundwork for vaccination.”

Wen Yuan’s stack of books would definitely help with that. The histories would certainly lay out a context for the many plagues that had come and gone and turned up again across the ages, while the book on great inventions definitely covered the development of vaccines. Between the two, she was fairly confident that they would be able to explain the principles behind vaccination and the reasons for their urgency.

Lan Qiren frowned, although she thought it was more a thoughtful twist on his default resting scowl than actual dissatisfaction. “You also have submitted a change to the proposed vaccination course. Why?”

Huh. He’d actually read it? Perhaps it was unfair to be surprised by that, but she was.

“Wei Wuxian has several anomalous factors that might influence his reaction to vaccination,” she explained. Which was the most neutral way she could say he can meditate injuries away and so I’m not even sure a vaccination would take. “Given that… while the original schedule addressed the most urgent vaccinations, I think it would be best to begin with something relatively innocuous, so I can assess if modifications will be necessary to accommodate his unusual recovery methods.”

Which would yet again skirt dangerously close to the line of illicit research, and yet again, she didn’t see any better options available to them.

Wen Qing pursed her lips thoughtfully. “To return to our previous discussion… I believe that, so long as Wei Wuxian is volunteering to teach us about cultivation, on his own initiative, that does not violate our ethical obligations – at least so long as we follow our established procedures and do not disseminate that information without his express permission.”

That got her a dour look; after all, within the scientific community not disseminating information was itself unethical. Ignoring it, she added, “Moreover, as a physician I think it would be good for him. Keeping busy, within reasonable limits, is an effective way to cope with and work through the grieving process.” She looked at Lan Wangji. “I will forward you some of the relevant literature regarding trauma survivors.” The scope and nature of Wei Wuxian’s specific experience might be unique, but trauma was still trauma.

Lan Qiren huffed disdainfully, not quietly enough to even pretend at discretion. Wen Qing deliberately ignored his pointed scorn. Lan Qiren was from a generation that saw therapy as a sop for the weak-willed and trauma as something real men – and it was always about men and manliness in the end! – should be able to simply power through.

Pity. Given Lan Qiren’s habit of ignoring or attacking anything that challenged his idea of the way the world should work, Wen Qing was of the opinion that he’d probably benefit from counseling himself. But, he hadn’t asked her opinion, and in the end he was responsible for his own problems.

Still. She might drop a suggestion to Lan Xichen that they consider putting a psychological expert on retainer. If nothing else, to better understand the mental aspect of cultivation. And someone who could keep an eye on the mental health of all people involved in the project would not go amiss.

Lan Wangji likewise ignored Lan Qiren’s response. “That would be appreciated, Doctor. Seeing how much Cloud Recesses alone has changed must have been a shock.”

Lan Qiren made a dismissive gesture. “See that you follow the recommended best practices, then,” he said brusquely. As if he hadn’t been the one ignoring her advice on best practices before she all but literally hit him over the head with them!

Still, Wen Qing bit back the urge to snap back. Lan Qiren’s brusqueness hadn’t been his usual prideful bristling this time. He seemed almost distracted, as if turning something over in his mind.

Then he turned to Lan Wangji, his usual acerbic edge suddenly absent. “He truly recognized Cloud Recesses? From his own time?”

She blinked. That was wonder in the old goat’s tone.

Then again, of course it was. Cloud Recesses had always been proud of its long history, but to learn that said history ran even deeper than they’d thought… anyone would marvel at that.

And Lan Qiren was an archaeologist. For all his hardheadedness, he couldn’t be entirely immune to the allure of the past.

Lan Wangji nodded. “He recognized the Cold Springs as a place he visited in his youth. It seems that, at that time, they belonged to a group known as the Gusu Lan.”

Lan Qiren exhaled slowly. “So Cloud Recesses was founded at least a hundred years earlier than our recorded history… There must have been records lost in the transition period. I would very much like to know that story.”

Lan Wangji’s face was as stony as ever, but Wen Qing got the distinct feeling that the man was amused. “I suspect that, given time, Wei Wuxian would be happy to share what he knows.”

“Aw, come on. Just an itsy bitsy bitty little hint?”

Wen Yuan smiled – the serene, mysterious, knowing smile that he knew for a fact was absolutely infuriating. Seriously, it was way, way too easy to wind Lan Jingyi up.

On his screen, Ouyang Zizhen huffed. “You’re being ridiculous. He told us that the work on the Yiling Laozu project was going to be strictly confidential,” he said.

Lan Jingyi wrinkled his nose in annoyance. “Like you aren’t curious, too? I remember how excited you were when he told us about the internship!”

“Well of course I was!” Ouyang Zizhen said eagerly, waving his hands in the air in total disregard for the physics equations he had supposedly been working on during their video call. “It’s such a romantically tragic story – a beautiful man from the distant past, sealed away forever in the ice, eternally young and untouchable!”

Wen Yuan tried not to wince at that. In the abstract, Ouyang Zizhen wasn’t wrong, it really did sound like the makings of an epic romantic tragedy.

Tragedy got a lot less romantic when he started thinking about it in terms of an actual person.

It was worse when he considered that Wei Wuxian actually really was young – about Mo Xuanyu’s age, not that much older than Wen Yuan even! Which… yeah, in his head he’d known that, but it was different when he was actually interacting with the man and found himself thinking that Wei Wuxian almost felt like the playful older brother he’d always wanted.

“What’s romantic about being dead?” Jin Ling scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and totally messing up the neatly pressed lines of his designer shirt. “And I’m pretty sure that eternally untouchable and sealed away forever don’t really apply when the point of the project is to get rid of the ice.”

Lan Jingyi rolled his eyes and loftily ignored Jin Ling’s sniping – it was something of a running argument between the two. “I just think it’s weird that they’re making you stay all the way up there the whole time,” he insisted. “We were gonna hang out this summer!”

Wen Yuan smiled sheepishly, because they had had plans before everything happened with the project… but before he could say anything, Jin Ling snorted loudly.

“Maybe he decided that hanging around watching a bunch of old guys chop up a dead body for science sounded more interesting,” the younger boy sneered.

“Jin Ling!” Ouyang Zizhen snapped as Lan Jingyi spluttered, genuinely angry this time.

Wen Yuan frowned. Because yes, Jin Ling tended to be downright caustic when it came to the Yiling Laozu project. As far as Wen Yuan could tell, it came from a weird mix of being genuinely interested but worried that it wasn’t a “cool enough” sort of interest, and bitterness about being sent to Linyi way out in Shandong for the summer right as the project was actually happening. But even as snappish as Jin Ling could be, that had been downright nasty. And his left hand was fiddling with the purple cord of the charm he always had in his pocket.

“Jin Ling. Is everything okay?” he asked, gently but pointedly.

Bingo. Jin Ling immediately sniffed and looked away from his camera, a sure tell-tale that he knew he’d crossed a line but wasn’t willing to admit it. “What are you talking about?!” he bristled. “I’m doing great! I’ve got a whole freaking mansion all to myself out here, except for when the old guy wants to do a photo op for the press! It’s awesome!”

Ah. Wen Yuan carefully bit down the urge to wince, knowing that any hint of sympathy would only make Jin Ling even more defensive. He tried so hard to pretend that it didn’t hurt that his grandfather had only taken him in – after years of being bounced around in the system – because as a high-ranking official in the party Jin Guangshan had decided it would be good for his image to make a show of Proper Family Values, and Jin Ling had grown into a nicely photogenic preteen. Jin Ling insisted that it wasn’t that big of a deal; Jin Guangshan got his sappy show of reuniting with his estranged son’s long-lost child and Jin Ling got fancy clothes and the best schools and otherwise left to his own business…

But Wen Yuan also remembered how devastated Jin Ling had been when he’d learned that he’d been skipped several grades, not out of his own academic merit, but because Jin Guangshan had bribed the school so he could brag about his grandson being a child prodigy.

Which was part of how they’d met, actually. Jin Ling had been younger and smaller than everyone in their class, dumped in the middle of the school year into a new school where he didn’t know anyone and drowning in a curriculum he wasn’t anywhere near ready for, and the school had assigned Wen Yuan to show him around. Which had sort of naturally morphed into tutoring and Lan Jingyi developing a mysterious and incurable allergy to any hint of bullying while Ouyang Zizhen had concocted wilder and wilder stories to explain away the black eyes and bruised knuckles, and somewhere in the midst of it all they’d ended up friends.

Unfortunately, the situation with Jin Ling’s grandfather was beyond their ability to solve – regardless of Lan Jingyi’s occasional muttering about what it would take to hire a hitman on a student’s budget. So instead Wen Yuan just said, “Does anyone else think there’s a typo in the third question? Because I can’t get it to make sense.” And made sure to offer his best butter-wouldn’t-melt smile when Jin Ling eyed him suspiciously.

The best thing about Lan Jingyi: despite his bad habit of engaging his mouth before his brain, he was actually really quick on the uptake. One blink, and he got it, and let out a dramatic groan as he slumped forward to bang his head on his textbook. “Oh man, it got you too? At least now I feel a little less stupid about getting stuck!”

Jin Ling snorted. “I don’t think that’s just a matter of feeling,” he said, but the brittle edge was gone and they were back to his baseline snarky state of existence, and when Wen Yuan made his apologies and signed off the video call he was feeling… okay, maybe not great, Jin Ling’s situation was just plain not right. But better, at least.

Then he groaned and flopped face-down onto his physics book, because seriously, this was so hard!

…Okay, yes, and he was also having way too much fun with it. The guys were going to murder him when the news broke, he intended to milk the mystery for all it was worth while he still could.

But that didn’t make it any easier to sit there listening to the guys talking about Yiling Laozu with this big huge secret lurking in the back of his head and threatening to explode out every time he opened his mouth!

He sighed and straightened. Lan Wangji was still in his office, and Wei Wuxian was outside somewhere, making himself scarce so they could do their stuff. Which meant this was his chance to get more of his schoolwork out of the way so he could focus on the project!

…Except he had not been kidding about that third physics question being a stumper. Three attempts and three different impossible answers later, Wen Yuan was slumped over his textbook again for a completely different reason. Augh!

“A’Yuan?”

He yelped, hastily straightening up and trying to look dignified rather than like he’d been literally banging his head on his homework in the hopes of discovering the solution through percussive osmosis…

Wait. This was Wei Wuxian. So far as he cared, dignity was crunchy and best served fried in chili oil.

And he was grinning in a way that said he wasn’t the least bit fooled. “Studies?” he asked knowingly.

Well. Since dignity was pretty much futile anyway…

Slumping over his uncooperative answer sheet, Wen Yuan groaned.

The dramatics did at least score him a laugh as the man took the implicit permission to come into the main room and settle down at the table as well. Putting something down on the floor next to him, Wei Wuxian reached across the table and pulled Wen Yuan’s book towards himself, flipping it around to study the contents more closely.

He considered the unfamiliar diagrams and equations for a minute or two, flicking back and forth between pages a few times but carefully keeping Wen Yuan’s place. Then he looked up. “Will you explain to me?”

Wen Yuan blinked. Was he really asking… Okay, yes, he really was. Oh boy, this might take a while…

Which, yes, it did. There were so many words they had to figure out, even just to get through the basic concepts! Even with Wei Wuxian’s rapidly expanding vocabulary, it was a lot.

Actually… come to think of it, they should probably get him a dictionary. There weren’t really any good bilingual classical-to-modern dictionaries available, not for the sort of words he really needed… but he was getting to the stage where just a basic modern Mandarin dictionary would be useful, at least for learning the words in terms of their context and nuances within the language itself. He remembered reading something about that being an important transition in language acquisition – moving from thinking in your own language and trying to translate it, to actually speaking the new language.

Although, really, the fact that Wei Wuxian was anywhere near that stage at all after only a few weeks, when he was learning as an adult…

Huh. The stories talked about cultivation being about immortality and eternal youth… did that translate over to the brain, too? Could Wei Wuxian sort of meditate himself into the neural plasticity that let kids learn stuff faster and better?

…man, that would be so handy in school…

Although… actually, after the first brain-flip of trying to go from solving physics equations to explaining what physics even was… well, Wen Yuan found himself actually getting into it. He knew in his head that the ability to translate motion into numbers had been a seriously revolutionary change in how people understood the world – or at least he knew that now, after discovering that physics as a system was listed in the great inventions book and the brain-bendy realization that, oh yeah, physics as a field of study was a thing that people had invented.  But it felt different when he had Wei Wuxian listening with wide-eyed fascination and then demanding demonstrations of how it worked. Which meant flipping back to earlier problem sets to show him how the basic building blocks fit together, and it was kind of fun to be dealing with questions he could actually answer, and even explain.

Finally, he handed a set of problems to Wei Wuxian to poke at, and turned back to his own homework.

And blinked. After all that review, suddenly that third problem made so much more sense…

Startled, he looked up… and realized Wei Wuxian was watching him with a knowing smirk.

“You did that on purpose!” he blurted.

Wei Wuxian cackled at him, reaching over to poke Wen Yuan between the eyes with the eraser of the pencil he’d borrowed. “You teach, you learn,” he said smugly.

Wen Yuan huffed… then started laughing, because he’d abruptly been struck by the mental image of Jin Ling meeting Wei Wuxian.

Oh, he hoped they could make that happen, and not just because Jin Ling’s situation sucked and he deserved to get to be part of something awesome and magical. Wei Wuxian would take one look at Jin Ling and his prickles and adopt the kid on the spot… and Jin Ling would love every minute of it and be so utterly offended by his own reaction. The whole thing would be comedy gold!

In the meantime… Wen Yuan was done at last with his homework, and it belatedly occurred to him that Wei Wuxian might actually have come looking for him for a reason, not just to solve his schoolwork woes with sneaky teaching techniques. “Did you need something?” he asked quickly.

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “Need, no. Inviting,” he said. And then picked up the thing that he’d left on the floor, and placed it on the table.

Wen Yuan sparkled and wasn’t the least bit ashamed. Because sword!

“Practicing,” Wei Wuxian explained as he stood, and then grinned, crooking a finger in invitation.

The meaning was obvious. Wanna watch?

The answer was equally obvious: oh hell yes!

Wen Yuan scrambled to his feet, almost upending the table in his hurry, and followed Wei Wuxian out. Wei Wuxian waved for him to stay on the veranda as the cultivator stepped down into the garden itself; Wen Yuan sat on the edge of the platform, feet dangling over the side as he eagerly watched Wei Wuxian move out into the open space that they’d used for Tai Chi… had it really been only that morning?

For a moment, Wen Yuan wondered if he should get Professor Lan – yes, he was still in a meeting with Director Lan and Aunt Qing, but surely he wouldn’t want to miss this! But then, standing in the center of the space, Wei Wuxian went utterly still for a moment. Breathing.

And then he moved.

Wide-eyed, Wen Yuan watched, not even sure if he was actually breathing. Sure, he’d seen martial arts demonstrations, both in person and recorded. And he’d watched plenty of shows and movies, and even if the fighting was pretty fake in a lot of them he’d seen some really realistic stuff, too…

This wasn’t realistic. This was real, in a way that he couldn’t put his finger on directly but that spoke straight to his gut in a way that even martial arts tournaments didn’t.

Then again… of course it felt real. Martial arts were arts, and most people, even the very best, didn’t learn them expecting their lives to depend on their skills.

Wei Wuxian started slow, cycling through a series of stances and strikes that were almost meditative, even with a hard precision to them that showed that Wei Wuxian knew exactly where the blade would cut and thrust with every movement. A precision that stayed, even as his movements sped up. Then…

Wen Yuan nearly choked in shock at first jump, as Wei Wuxian leapt, flipped, and came down with a whirling strike that probably would have cut an opponent in two right there, and no wonder he’d wanted Wen Yuan on the veranda and out of the way, because he kept going, moving through the air as much as across the ground. And he didn’t stay in the cleared space, either, but used the whole garden, trees and plants and everything. Which was totally like something out of a movie, except that this wasn’t the result of choreography and camera work – he just was that aware of everything around him, that he could leap and slide and dart without actually damaging a single plant.

Then another impossible leap, and he landed lightly on one of the rocks out in the middle of the pond, set his hand in a mudra—

And his sword flew.

Now Wen Yuan did stop breathing, as the sword whirled and darted back and forth through the air over the pond, so fast that it was barely more than a shimmery silver-red trail of light. Because yeah, he’d heard about the Sword Incident with Jin Zixun and it wasn’t like he hadn’t already seen Wei Wuxian do impossible stuff like walking on water…

But this, watching a flying sword weaving an intricate lattice of light as Wei Wuxian stood quiet and still at the heart of the pattern… he was seeing this with his own eyes!

Then it came to a stop, hovering point-down next to Wei Wuxian, and…

“Can you fly on it?” he blurted.

Squeaked, rather, because his lungs were a bit shorter on air than he’d realized.

Wei Wuxian paused as he was reaching for the hilt of his sword and looked at Wen Yuan, blinking and tilting his head.

Right. Words. He could word. Definitely.

Um. “I mean… flying. Going up? On your sword?” Flushing – that sounded so awkward! – he added some vague gesticulations towards the air, the sword, a sort of vague hand motion that maybe could pass for one of those mudras if you squinted really hard.

Wei Wuxian laughed – but then he made a gesture, and his sword lowered itself down to hover, horizontal now, alongside the stone he was standing on.

Then, casual as could be, he stepped onto the flat of the blade. And stood there, one hand in the mudra, the other resting on a jauntily cocked hip, grinning at Wen Yuan.

Standing on a sword hovering in midair.

Wen Yuan was pretty sure he’d never, ever live down the strangled noise he made, and he didn’t care. Because apparently he lived in a world where flying on a sword was an actual thing that could happen.

I am going to learn how to do that!

Chapter Text

Wei Wuxian flopped back on the roof tiles with a relieved sigh.

Over the last several days since his realization at the Cold Springs and the subsequent confrontations and conversations, they’d come up with a rhythm of sorts to their days. Lan Wangji rose obscenely early, like a proper Lan should, and spent the early morning hours being disgustingly productive doing… something. Wei Wuxian still wasn’t entirely clear about what the man’s status in this strange new version of Cloud Recesses actually was, beyond the fact that he was clearly a dedicated scholar, which probably meant a respectable level of rank and wealth even with the new printing techniques that made books so much more easily available. Wen Yuan also rose relatively early – just not horrifyingly so! – and worked on his own studies until Wei Wuxian joined them for the morning meal. After which, they gathered together – usually as an excursion elsewhere, to maintain the illusion that Wei Wuxian was not living with Lan Wangji – for the language lessons.

Although those had shifted somewhat. It helped to know that he hadn’t been imagining the similarities. In a way, he’d been right to wonder if the local language was a very distant dialect of a more familiar tongue. It was… just, distant in time, rather than place.

Very, very distant!

Wei Wuxian chuckled ruefully. Now that he’d more or less gotten the basics down, his main problem was simply vocabulary… and practice. So, since what he needed was lots of words in context… well, A’Yuan’s books were being put to excellent use!

Crossing his hands behind his head, he closed his eyes, basking in the afternoon sun.

This, too, had become part of the daily routine.  After a morning of intensive mental work, by the time the midday meal was finished all three of them were nursing headaches. So they had taken to spending the early afternoons working on physical training and meditation. Although “training” was probably an overstatement, since thus far Wei Wuxian was limiting his intervention to ensuring that Wen Yuan and Lan Wangji were properly utilizing the benefits of their intriguing moving meditation to strengthen their meridians.

Actually training… well. He had a few things that he wanted to be sure of before they tried to tackle that.

And once that was done, Lan Wangji often had responsibilities to attend to, and Wen Yuan more of his studies. Although Wei Wuxian strongly suspected that was less a matter of studies and far more about spending time with his disembodied voices!

Yes, he was aware that Wen Yuan was actually using his “computer” to speak to friends in distant places. But the spluttering every time Wei Wuxian called them “ghost voices” was far too much fun!

Eventually, of course, they would reconvene for an evening meal and then more conversation and perhaps a bit of music, until the poor early risers were yawning and ready to retire at yet another truly Lan-like hour. But for now… well, Wei Wuxian had some time to himself.

And they’d come to an agreement that the rooftop was effectively “his” space, for when he wanted to think – especially after Wen Yuan prudently decided that he would not be attempting any further rooftop scrambles without the aid of a ladder! And, truly, the space was welcome. Good company the other two might be, but it was rather obvious that the Jingshi was not intended to house three quite active people.

And… well. There was no denying that he had a great deal to think about. A lot had happened over the course of fifteen hundred years.

Granted, Wen Yuan’s book did a very good job of laying out the developing history as a clear narrative thread. Clear enough to tell Wei Wuxian that there were definitely important details being glossed over; he knew a few things about pat tidy stories meant for general consumption.

And actually, it was those missing threads in the story that bothered him the most. In particular: where were the sects?

Not just the sects. The section of the history that had dealt with his own time went into horrifying and occasionally mind-numbing detail on the many petty wars of the various dynasties that had risen and fallen – which, well, not wrong!

But he had yet to find a single reference to the Sunshot Campaign.

Which… didn’t make sense. Even if somehow knowledge of the cultivation sects had been lost… Wen Ruohan had systematically scoured the land of anyone who might even dream of claiming to stand above or even equal to the Wen clan, and he had made no exceptions for non-cultivators. And the subsequent war had raged across all the civilized lands, leaving devastation all too frequently in its wake.

And yet… no mention of it. He had recognized a handful of names in the accounts of petty wars among the mundane nobility and their generals, although he could have sworn most of those had been far too busy bowing to Wen Ruohan or demanding that the Sunshot Campaign win faster to get up to anything like that on their own time, but then again he’d been a bit preoccupied with surviving the Sunshot Campaign himself to worry about that. But… that was it.

Frankly, Wei Wuxian suspected that there had been some master historians in the subsequent dynasties who had nursed a fondness for burning inconvenient records and one hell of a grudge.

Except. Even the Qin hadn’t managed to actually destroy everything of what had come before. Cultivation techniques were one thing – consider how much had been lost with the burning of Gusu Lan and the massacre at Lotus Pier, or the near-annihilation of the Wen after the war, for that matter. But knowledge of the very existence of the sects?

Shaking his head, Wei Wuxian settled back, wriggling his shoulders a bit to get more comfortable – and blinked when something pulled slightly on his upper arm, before he recalled the strange sticky fabric with gauze that Wen Qing had put there.

That was the other reason he was on the roof rather than exploring. They’d broken the routine up a bit today; rather than going over history, they’d joined Wen Qing for a rather in-depth discussion of how medicine had changed – and particularly, the treatment of diseases.

Which had been… well. Amazing, really. So many people died every year to seasonal illnesses and the periodic plagues that swept through the land. Even the great sects, with their healers and clean water and plentiful food, weren’t immune. Yunmeng Jiang had been particularly attentive to such matters, if only because plague often followed the river trade routes. And, of course, the restless dead that disease could leave in its wake, not to mention yao that often spread or worsened illnesses.

Wei Wuxian was acutely aware that he’d been lucky as a child; he’d seen plenty of other street children struck down by disease. But while he hadn’t had a golden core, his parents had taught him how to meditate and cycle power through his meridians. Just little tricks, but enough. Enough to be a little stronger against the cold, to survive on less food, to strengthen himself against contaminated food and water, and to fight off disease.

Wen Qing, for her part, had been fascinated by that information. They’d spent the whole of the midday meal discussing the ways that cultivation could enhance one’s resistance to diseases. Not to mention the level of cultivation required, how effective the techniques were on different types of illnesses, the difference between passive resistance versus generalized practices that happened to have helpful effects versus specific healing techniques, what techniques were used by the patient versus techniques used by the healer…

He’d answered… well, as well as he could. He wasn’t a trained healer himself, but as head disciple the health and safety of junior disciples had been his responsibility, so he did at least know rather more than most. And he’d picked up a fair bit over the course of the war, as well.

The problem was words! Cultivation was hard enough to explain to non-cultivators as it was, and half of the time, Lan Wangji seemed to be struggling to find matching terms in this new language. Not to mention that medicine had clearly developed new words as well – he was still trying to sort out the distinction between bacterial and viral and another dozen terms that just didn’t seem to translate.

Still. Stilted as it had been, they’d both managed to learn quite a bit…

And then she’d stabbed him with one of her needles anyway! No mercy at all!

And she’d just rolled her eyes when he’d pouted at her. Really… tragic as it was, it was probably a good thing that she and Lan Yi would never have the opportunity to join forces in terrorizing him!

He was fairly sure that she wasn’t actually Lan Yi’s reincarnation, at least. Or rather, he hoped she wasn’t. The bond between Lan Yi and her husband… well. Those two were the sort to be reborn as husband and wife through a thousand reincarnations. They belonged together.

Granted, that didn’t mean that Lan Yi’s actual reincarnation wasn’t out there somewhere in this much later version of the world. Now that was a scary thought!

Regardless, Wen Qing had wanted him to stay close to the others, in case he reacted badly to the “vaccine” she had given him. Which he thought was unlikely, given her explanation of how the vaccine worked, but… well, he didn’t argue with healers. Especially ones with needles!

To be honest, he thought the idea of vaccines was a fascinating concept. After all, the sects would send – had sent, rather – junior disciples on relatively easy night hunts at first, sometimes even sending them against captured yao in controlled hunting grounds, specifically to build their confidence and experience before sending them out against more dangerous opponents. Vaccines, so far as he understood the concept, took the same principle of training through experience and applied it to the body’s defense against illness.

And it was a good idea to send a senior along to observe even the safe night hunts; there was always, always a chance of something going very, very wrong. So it made sense that the doctor wanted him to stay close to the others, in case of problems.

Of course, that did raise the question of what to do with his time. He could pull out the history books or the poetry book and try to get a little farther, he supposed… but he hated to deprive Wen Yuan of the opportunity; the boy was so enthusiastic about it. He did have his own little side project he’d been working on when the boy wasn’t looking… but with the change in routine, he hadn’t brought his supplies with him onto the roof, and he didn’t feel like climbing back down. Especially since Wen Yuan was busy with his disembodied voices (heh!) in the main room.

He could meditate, of course… but he’d already spent nearly a shichen on that, and Wen Qing had specifically asked him to refrain from actively using his cultivation until she had a better understanding of how he would react to these new healing techniques. Which meant training was also out.

Not to mention that his core still ached at unexpected moments. It was improving, especially now that he had been making use of the Cold Springs as part of his evening wandering, but it was definitely still strained in a way that he hadn’t even known was possible.

Granted, given that he apparently had survived being frozen in ice for fifteen hundred years, coming out with a strained core was definitely getting off easy!

Still. Given that Wen Qing clearly knew very little about cultivation, and she was the only healer he’d met so far… best to be careful until he was more confident in his recovery.

He sighed, closing his eyes, and seriously contemplated just taking a nap. Although he could just imagine Jiang Cheng’s complaining; you slept for fifteen hundred years and you’re still napping?!

He did have to wonder how Jiang Cheng had reacted to his disappearance. For that matter, he wondered if Yunmeng Jiang had even known what happened to him. For his own part, he still had no actual memory of anything beyond preparing to leave the cleansed Burial Mounds – just the sense-memory of an arrow’s impact and remembered annoyance echoed by the slow stirring of deeper fury within the Burial Mounds themselves. Nothing to indicate who had shot that arrow, or if they’d survived the consequences.

It was entirely possible that from the perspective of his own time, Wei Wuxian had simply… vanished.

He had to wince at that. He could imagine the mess that would have caused. Especially given the absolute fury Jiang Cheng had flown into when he’d declared his intent to go to the Burial Mounds.

But it had been necessary, especially when Jiang Cheng had thrown fits just as furious over Wei Wuxian fulfilling his duties.

He understood it. During the war, Jiang Cheng had coped with the loss of his core by flinging himself into the fight against the Wens. Wei Wuxian had been an extension of his will, his powers effectively Jiang Cheng’s powers. But after the war, when they’d finally defeated the Wen and returned to Lotus Pier to pick up the pieces and return to peaceful, day to day life…

Well. With no common enemy to stand against, the old insecurities had come surging back, in force.

Wei Wuxian had gone to the Burial Mounds in part because if he hadn’t, it would only have been a matter of time before those bitter insecurities drove a much more permanent wedge through the sect. But as the years passed and it became obvious that Wei Wuxian wouldn’t return…

He knew Jiang Cheng. The thought that Wei Wuxian’s absence might not be by choice would never even occur to him.

It was not hard at all to imagine the incandescent fury.

“Wei Wuxian?”

Startled, Wei Wuxian sat up, blinking over the edge of the roof at the man standing in the open space of the garden below. He’d thought that Lan Wangji was occupied with his own set of disembodied voices, or perhaps deep in his scholarly work – but there the man was, looking up at the roof with his usual calm expressionlessness, hands clasped patiently behind his back.

“Do you have a moment?” he asked.

Wei Wuxian grinned. And here he’d been wracking his mind for something to do! Ask and ye shall receive, apparently. “Always!” he chirped, bouncing to his feet and hopping down from the roof onto the veranda.

Stepping up onto the veranda himself, Lan Wangji tilted his head in elegant acknowledgement, and then led the way into the room that Wei Wuxian had come to think of as the man’s personal study. Amused by the typical taciturn lack of explanation, Wei Wuxian followed behind him, curious.

And, well, perhaps a little eager. He’d generally stayed out of that room unless invited – as noted previously, it seemed to be Lan Wangji’s personal study, and he did have some sense of propriety, after all!

Still. Part of him wanted to stare in awe every time he visited. There were more written documents in Lan Wangji’s personal collection than he’d seen in the libraries of some sects – and not just minor ones, either!

Granted, it was obvious that books were vastly easier to acquire in this strange future time. All he needed for proof of that was the stack of volumes that Wen Yuan had handed him – more texts than he’d ever owned in his entire life, and that included the ones he’d written himself!

Granted, he hadn’t actually written much. He held to his philosophy that notes didn’t do anyone much good when you couldn’t exactly pull them out for consultation in the middle of a fight. And his ghost path… well. He’d wanted to sort that out a bit more before he tried recording the techniques for others to try. Especially since the underlying principle was… not one that most proud young masters would take to with ease, one might say.

Not that that had ever stopped opportunists from providing false cultivation manuals, the better to prey on those who didn’t realize that the masters of the great sects would have absolute conniptions at the thought of writing down their own cultivation techniques – even the basic ones that everyone used, let alone the specific techniques of the different clans and sects. Except for the Gusu Lan, who’d followed their founding philosophy as a sect based on the principles of a monastery, and wrote everything down. Including three thousand rules.

(And then never got rid of any of it. Even when the contents were proven wrong. Lan Yi had had some opinions about that.)

Really, just the sheer number of texts Lan Wangji had squirreled away in his home was proof that Lan Wangji was, indeed, a Lan Lan.

Still. The sheer amount of information stored away in this room was mind-boggling, and he would happily have lost himself in it, were he not still attempting to master the way writing had changed from the classical style of the old texts that he had learned as a young disciple.

Still. He couldn’t help but notice that today, many of those texts were not on the shelves. The office wasn’t messy by any means – he had a private suspicion that Lan Wangji was constitutionally incapable of being messy. But there were books arranged in what were clearly precisely organized stacks out on his desk, clearly there to be used.

The sight made him laugh a little internally. How many people had pictured a scene like this when it came to his creation of guidao? Well, not exactly like this, there definitely would have been more mess and dead bodies and almost certainly Vaguely Ominous Noises everywhere, but still a matter of ancient tomes and such. When actually, his cultivation had been born from desperate flashes of inspiration and trial and error and not wanting to die. And not a text in sight.

However, a large area of the desk had been set aside for a map.

Intrigued, Wei Wuxian tilted his head for a closer look. The map seemed to be made of… something very like an extraordinarily dense fabric, thick and sturdy enough that where one corner of it hung over the edge of the desk, it flopped more than draping. Although part of that might have to do with the strange, dully glossy finish on one side of it, looking like some kind of clear, flexible lacquer had been applied to it after the map itself had been painted.

And what a map! Like the one from the history book, it showed the forests and mountains and rivers and coastlines – not to mention cities! – in vivid colors, with a level of detail that was so precise that it looked real, like the landscape that spread out below during sword flight. Except Wei Wuxian didn’t know of anyone who’d ever flown that high!

Although, he was also fairly certain that few cultivators would ever have used sword flight for mapmaking. He’d done it on occasion, during complicated night hunts, and the skill had proven exceedingly useful from time to time during the war. But most cultivators he had known would have considered such things to be beneath them; too mundane, too utilitarian, too worldly for noble cultivators seeking the lofty heights of immortality!

Strange how worldliness only seemed to apply to practical work, rather than silver and silks.

Wei Wuxian shook his head, chuckling – after all, the foibles of the powerful were hardly anything new! – and then blinked as Lan Wangji offered him a sheet of paper.

Accepting it, Wei Wuxian studied the contents curiously. It appeared to be a timeline, similar to the one that Lan Wangji had made after Wei Wuxian had confronted him – although this one was clearly printed, the characters too small and fine and regular for even the steadiest of hands wielding the smallest of brushes.

But this timeline ended with the founding of the Tang dynasty. (A name that at least meant a little more to him now than it had that day!) The year Wei Wuxian had marked, the last one that he himself remembered, was placed in the center of the line. But where that previous timeline had been all but empty save for the march of dynasty after centuries-long dynasty, every length of this much shorter timeline was bristling with notations. Not just the rise and fall of various rulers and warlords, not just great battles, but famines, storms, floods… and each one marked with two dates. One the odd new system with its nonsensical zero year that simply counted without regard to dynasties or rulers, and the other… ah. The other marked the date relative to Wei Wuxian’s own timepoint, it seemed.

One event in particular caught his eye – because he remembered that one. A massive flood had devastated the Wei river valley near Nightless City in Qishan, devastating the region and leading to thousands of deaths as the civilian population had found themselves with nowhere to flee – and then worse, because as the waters receded, the taint of those deaths had become concentrated in the Wei river.

That shouldn’t have happened. But in the aftermath of the war, the Wen sect had been too shattered to hunt anything, let alone deal with such a massive problem. And no other sects had stepped in to handle the region in their absence. There’d even been a frustrating sense that somehow, the flood was simply just desserts – despite the fact that the people affected hadn’t even had anything to do with the war. He’d considered visiting after his work in the Burial Mounds, to see if the techniques he’d developed there might help, but… well.

Looking at the marker for the flood, however, clicked it into place. The first timeline had been broad in scale, covering the vast expanse of time that had passed while he had been absent. This one…

He looked at the second half of the line, the half that came after his disappearance, and then looked at Lan Wangji.

“This is what we know of the events of your time,” the man said. “It is as detailed as I could make it.”

Wei Wuxian blinked at him, then looked back at the timeline, positively bristling with events and annotations.

Was this what Lan Wangji had been doing all this time? Wei Wuxian had some idea of how much effort was involved in digging through old annals; he’d done it on occasion for night hunts, and then especially after the war, as he and Jiang Cheng had tried to hunt down information on the various threats that the Jiang had kept suppressed in their territories for decades and even centuries, because the last thing they needed in the wake of the war was another Xuanwu of Slaughter breaking its seals under their feet.

“…Thank you,” he said, genuinely touched. The man must have put so much work into hunting the information down, let alone bringing it together into a concise form.

Lan Wangji pursed his lips ever so slightly as he gave at the document a flat stare, ears reddening slightly. “From what we have learned, I suspect much is incorrect, or missing,” he said, as if the inadequacies of his sources was a matter of personal affront.

Wei Wuxian beamed at him. “It is a start!” he countered. “And we two can learn more from here!”

Hm. Lan Wangji’s ears turned even redder at that.

The video ended, followed by silence.

A silence eventually broken by the clatter of a truly ridiculous number of phone charms hitting the table.

Nie Mingjue bit back a snicker. How about that. He actually put the phone down.

Then again. If anything was going to actually detach his little brother from his beloved cell phone… Well. The security camera footage of Wei Wuxian waking out of the ice would do it.

Then Nie Huaisang smacked him upside the head. “Dage!” he shrieked. “You couldn’t have warned me?!”

Nie Mingjue smirked. Ooh, his brother had put some actual wrist into that, he was ticked. “Would you have believed me if I had?” he asked, smug and not even trying to hide it.

After all, after having lived through the whole holy shit this is actually happening! madness in person, he was not going to pretend he wasn’t taking a cathartic amount of unholy glee in inflicting it on someone else. Especially his pest of a baby brother.

A baby brother who was already recovering, staring at him with big wide doe eyes. “But Dage, you signed an NDA! Are you sure it’s okay to show me this?”

Nie Mingjue snorted. As if Nie Huaisang didn’t know damned well that Nie Mingjue wouldn’t have shown him any such thing without formal clearance. His brother was just fishing for information, and not even pretending to be subtle about it, either.

Granted, Nie Huaisang’s wide-eyed act was actually quite effective on most people. But Nie Mingjue had practically raised his half-brother; he was not most people.

“This has to go public eventually,” he said bluntly. “And Lan Qiren and his bunch don’t know the first thing about publishing in anything that isn’t a scientific journal. Right now the only person with any kind of social media savvy on the project that I trust is the sixteen year old.”

And like hell he was going to put that on the kid. Not when this was going to call for quite a bit of political savvy as well. He was pretty sure the only person on the project with any experience in politics was Wei Wuxian… and he definitely wasn’t throwing the guy into that mess of sharks when he didn’t even know what a cell phone was yet.

Nie Huaisang blinked at him, looking genuinely taken aback. “I’m amazed that the news isn’t everywhere already,” he said. The tone sounded impressed… unless you knew him well enough to catch the calculating edge underneath.

Which. Well.

“Same,” Nie Mingjue agreed, and let the flat grimness of his voice say everything else.

Because while he hadn’t yet discussed it with Lan Wangji, because the man had far too much on his shoulders as it was… Lan Qiren could talk about academic integrity, research contracts and NDAs as much as he liked. The blunt fact of the matter was, they should have had a leak by now. Maybe some of the researchers were keeping it zipped because they thought the prestige of being on the project outweighed the potential fame of being the one who blew the whistle, but that sure as hell didn’t account for everyone involved. True, they’d managed to shut Su Minshan down… but Jin Zixun? The guy was an assistant, he wasn’t exactly going to get much in the way of fame or fortune from the project playing out. Not to mention that he’d been effectively sidelined from the project for his idiocy… and yet he hadn’t gone whining to his rich, influential uncle?

No way had the guy spontaneously developed a sense of self-awareness. Someone was sitting on him to keep him quiet.

Very helpful of them. Nie Mingjue didn’t trust it one damn bit. It suggested that the someone in question saw a personal benefit in keeping the news about Wei Wuxian quiet.

And he hadn’t forgotten about the break-in attempt… or the timing. Jin Zixun threw the whole security system into chaos and that very night someone tried to get into the lab? No, he did not like the implications of that in the least.

Information was power… but only if you knew how to wield it. There was a reason he’d pushed so hard for a PR manager. This was one battlefield that they were all rank amateurs on.

Nie Huaisang snatched up his phone, hugging it to his chest like a tiny electronic security blanket. “But Dage!” he whined. “It would be so much work!”

Heh. He knew that tone. His little brother was already hooked – probably had been from the moment he’d seen the video. And there was no way he’d leave something like this on the head of a teenager. But he still had a persona to play. So. “That’s because you’re thinking about it the wrong way.”

Nie Huaisang pouted at him, fingers absently playing with a five-tailed fox charm from the cluster dangling from his phone. “Oh?”

Nie Mingjue raised his eyebrows. “Think about how shocked you were by the video. Now think about getting to be the one who decides how and when to inflict that on the entire world.”

Nie Huaisang’s grin was all teeth.

Just one last bit of bait to dangle. Because he couldn’t resist. “By the way… did I mention he can make his sword fly?”

“This really doesn’t make sense, you know.”

Lan Wangji looked up from Nie Mingjue’s email confirming Nie Huaisang’s appointment and setting up a time to introduce him to the project’s leadership to find Wei Wuxian studying the map now laid out on a side table he’d added to his office.

The map itself had been a gift from Lan Xichen – half serious, half a joke. Technically it was a desk protector; a satellite photo of China printed on fabric and finished with an easily cleaned surface. An easily cleaned surface that was also easy to write on, so long as one used washable markers. It had proven very useful in his research, allowing him to note and track the practices of different regions and observe patterns of diffusion and contraction over time.

Now the map was laid out with points marking names he’d never encountered in his research: Yunmeng Jiang, Gusu Lan, Lanling Jin, Qinghe Nie, Tingshan He. He’d intended to mark border lines as well, but when he had asked, Wei Wuxian had laughed wryly.

“Borders!” he’d chuckled. “Borders were very important. Until there was a problem that no one wanted! Or maybe something someone did want.”

That had been an interesting conversation. Lan Wangji had not realized how deeply embedded the concept of borders as clearly drawn lines upon a map denoting sovereign territories was in his mind… or how new the concept actually was. Intellectually he knew that historically borders tended to be much fuzzier in practice – more a matter of spheres of influence, only becoming clearly defined when there was a dispute or history of conflict. But knowing such things on an intellectual level was rather different from Wei Wuxian’s wry humor about the matter.

At the moment, however, Wei Wuxian was studying the map with pursed lips, the photocopy of the ancient census report he’d been reading set aside.

“There is no writing of the clans and sects? I can understand.” He chuckled. “Angry historians can be dangerous!” With a frustrated huff, he planted his hands on his hips and shook his head. “But the Sunshot Campaign was big. Cultivators, farmers, merchants. It affected everyone. People would talk!”

Lan Wangji nodded thoughtfully. They had spent nearly two days now trying to track down some sort of record of the great war between the cultivation sects – a war that had raged across the entire heartland of the Middle Kingdom that he’d never heard of, in any of the ancient records. Wei Wuxian was right, the gap was strange. Even if the historians in the courts of the various dynasties had for some reason attempted to erase that part of history… Lan Wangji studied folklore. There should have been songs. Legends. Folk tales, beyond lore centered around lone sages like the Yiling Laozu legend. Something to reflect a conflict so massive that the greater part of the country had united in alliance against a single would-be conqueror.

Given that the period was called the Age of Disunity in some academic circles for a reason, Lan Wangji had to wonder how that alliance had ever managed to come about.

Wei Wuxian chuckled when he asked. “Because the sects had to help. They owed us – Yunmeng Jiang. Or rather, Jiang Cheng and me.”

Jiang Cheng. Or rather Jiang Wanyin, heir and then leader of the Yunmeng Jiang. Someone Wei Wuxian had been very close to, given that despite his rank Wei Wuxian still referred to him by his personal name. “They owed you?” he asked, probing slightly. Wei Wuxian had referenced his own role in the war on occasion, but only very briefly, the occasional passing comment on his presence or absence during certain events. This was the first time he had ever mentioned playing a role at the start of the war.

The man nodded. “We saved the heirs of… many clans. But Jin and Nie, in particular. And many disciples. That was a big thing!”

Lan Wangji waited attentively. After a moment, Wei Wuxian chuckled and turned away from the map to face him properly, leaning his hip against the table as he settled into what Lan Wangji had come to recognize as his storytelling mode.

“Ah. Where to start?” Wei Wuxian paused – likely sifting through his available vocabulary for the best words – and then began. “The Wen… asked? Required?… all sects to send heirs and disciples to them. For ‘training.’” To Lan Wangji’s intense amusement, the man actually wiggled his fingers in air quotes at the word, a gesture he’d picked up from Wen Yuan.

It did seem to be an accurate application, in this case. “Hostages,” Lan Wangji surmised, not particularly surprised. The lives of the heirs as an ultimate threat, with additional disciples who could be killed to send a warning as needed.

Wei Wuxian cocked his head to the side; that term had yet to come up in their conversations, after all. Once Lan Wangji explained it – a process they’d refined to practically a science over the weeks – he snorted. “That. They just did not say the words! But that. They took our swords, made us study Wen texts, made us follow Wen Chao – Wen Ruohan’s second son,” he added in clarification, lip curling in obvious disdain. “Wen Ruohan’s stupid son.”

Ah. So a combination of hostages and an attempt to indoctrinate the heirs of the various clans into servitude towards the Wen. “What happened?”

Wei Wuxian huffed. “Wen Chao ordered his guards to hurt one disciple to…hm. Make the thing he was looking for come out. Jin Zixuan – the Jin heir – he refused. Wen Chao ordered his guards to kill Jin Zixuan.” Unexpectedly, he smirked. “Wen Chao was distracted. His guards were distracted. I… teased?… him to attack me. I took his sword and made Wen Chao my hostage.”

Lan Wangji felt his breath catch, picturing the desperate chaos of the events in those simple, stilted phrases. “That was… very dangerous. Why did you risk it?”

To his surprise, Wei Wuxian blinked at him, then shrugged. “The danger was already there. Wen Chao was stupid. He was not that stupid. Jin Zixuan was the Jin heir. You do not kill an important hostage! If you do, then you do not care what will happen. If you do, you have already decided there will be a war.” He shook his head. “That meant Jiang Cheng was not safe. I was to be protecting him. I needed to get him safe. So! I made Wen Chao my hostage.” His lips quirked. “It almost worked…”

Lan Wangji exhaled slowly. He could see the strategic merit, yes. If war was inevitable anyway, then the only thing cooperating with the Wens’ demands would accomplish would be to weaken the other sects by leaving their heirs and disciples in enemy hands. Fighting back would have given them the chance to escape to safety, and potentially put a valuable hostage in their own hands.

That almost, however, was ominous. “What happened?”

Wei Wuxian chuckled ruefully. “A monster was there. The Xuanwu of… Killing? We were standing on it!” He shook his head. “I did not expect that. It was a problem!”

Lan Wangji blinked. He… couldn’t have heard that correctly. He was certainly familiar with the mythological Xuanwu, of course, but… surely this was a case of linguistic drift? Or perhaps the figurative application of a mythological term to a mundane creature? “I have heard that a Xuanwu is a divine creature that protects the north,” he said carefully. “It is usually depicted… it is supposed to look like a tortoise and a snake.”

He expected the man to laugh and correct him. Instead, Wei Wuxian simply hummed and nodded. “That is close,” he agreed nonchalantly. “But this one was… wrong. Not divine. It had killed many people. Then it disappeared. I was surprised to learn that I was standing on it!”

“…That is an understandable miscalculation,” Lan Wangji said, grateful that his voice came out level and calm, and not as shaken as he actually felt. A part of him desperately, fervently wanted to believe that this was Wei Wuxian’s puckish sense of humor pulling his leg…

But the man simply nodded and continued. “Wen Chao and his men escaped. But they blocked the way out. We were stuck inside. But! Jiang Cheng and I, we found a way out in the water. Jiang Cheng led everyone out, I… made it slow?”

“You stalled it.” How?! And…

“That!” Wei Wuxian flourished his hands. “So! Jiang Cheng and I saved the sect heirs. They owed us. When Lotus Pier fell, Jiang Cheng used the debt to make them make the alliance.”

That… did explain a great deal, yes. That would have been a substantial debt.

Lan Wangji’s mind was stuck on a different detail, though. “How did you escape?”

“Ah.” Wei Wuxian smiled crookedly. “I fought very hard and I was very lucky. I was able to…” He pursed his lips for a moment. “Able to do enough. Hurt enough. Annoyed enough. Did not die enough! That made it… not want to stay.” He tilted his head. “I do not know if I killed it. It was gone. I was… not okay enough to care where.”

There was… a great deal to unpack in that story. It did explain something Lan Wangji had wondered about – how the heir of a sect that had already fallen had managed to become a pivotal figure in the war. There was surely more to the story; he doubted such a debt would have held much power in the face of political inconvenience for long without additional factors to tip the scales. But…

“Were such creatures common?” he asked, feeling strangely numb.

To his relief, Wei Wuxian laughed. “Oh no, not common! I thought the Xuanwu was just a story! And then it tried to eat me.”

Ah. That was… somewhat comforting. He was not sure he liked the thought of such creatures existing outside of escapist fiction and action movies.

And yet. It had existed. And while Wei Wuxian admitted that he had believed that it was a story, the way he said that… “I have never heard of any such creature existing in reality,” he said slowly. “In any form.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head, artlessly curious. “Any form?” he echoed. “Are there no yao? Mo? Gui?”

It was unsettling to realize that if Wei Wuxian had asked that same question less than an hour ago, Lan Wangji would have simply assumed he was speaking from an older view of how the world worked, might perhaps have taken the question as an opportunity to discuss how changes in the paradigm with which disease and natural disasters were understood meant that people no longer explained such things in terms of monsters and demons and angry ghosts. But knowing that he was speaking to someone who had encountered and fought such a creature…

“They are… folklore,” he said at last. “Legends and stories. Those who believe in them today are considered… superstitious. That is, prone to believing unlikely things.”

Eyebrows raised, Wei Wuxian tapped his lower lip thoughtfully as he considered that.

It was a gesture that Lan Wangji loved and loathed at one and the same time. It was… distracting.

Then again, everything about the man was distracting on some level. Which was neither Wei Wuxian’s doing, nor his responsibility.

Then bright grey eyes turned to Lan Wangji with unexpectedly sharp interest. “And cultivators?” the man asked. “Are we also unlikely things?”

“Cultivators and cultivation are considered… fantasy. Wish fulfillment,” he added, not even certain if the concept of fantasy as the modern world knew it had a matching concept in Wei Wuxian’s time.

It felt strangely embarrassing to say such things out loud to a living cultivator. At least they had not yet attempted to delve into that xianxia novel!

“Hm.” Wei Wuxian tilted his head, studying him thoughtfully. “And what does Lan Wangji think?”

For a moment, Lan Wangji fought the urge to bristle, a reflex borne from far too many “conversations” spent defending his research interests from his brother’s prying and his uncle’s disdain. Coming from Wei Wuxian, in light of the conversation to this point, it was a perfectly reasonable question to ask.

Then, abruptly, he felt a sudden sense of shame for his response. Had he not been asking prying questions of his own, all this time, without telling Wei Wuxian anything about himself? At first, he had had the excuse of avoiding the problem of Wei Wuxian’s dislocation in time – if he could justifiably call that an excuse. But now…

He had reflexively been trying to conduct himself with professional detachment. But as a result, he had created a very one-sided relationship between them. And that was… neither fair, nor right.

So… considering the question, he answered as honestly as he could. “I believed that as well. But it is obvious now that I was incorrect.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled, grinning mischievously, and Lan Wangji belatedly recalled that the man had, in fact, seen Lan Wangji’s reactions to cultivation in use. He knew that they’d had known very little about cultivation. So there really was no point in making some foolish attempt to play cool on the matter; that ship had sailed long ago. No matter what Lan Wangji’s ego felt about the matter.

The conversation did feel… strange. Lan Wangji knew himself; he had never particularly enjoyed the parry and thrust of academic conversation as a student. He had always preferred the quiet, solitary path of research in old texts, articulating his thoughts in meticulous words laying out carefully crafted arguments to be presented to his peers as journal articles.

But… he found that this time, he wanted the conversation to continue. So… slowly, he added, “It seems strange to me. I do not understand how cultivation as an art would have been lost.”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “It is very strange!” he agreed, hooking the spare chair Lan Wangji had brought for him and pulling it over to sit; he had adapted easily to Western-style furniture, although to Lan Wangji’s mixed despair and amusement, he’d also picked up the habit of sitting backwards rather than with proper posture. Crossing his arms on the back, he added thoughtfully, “But stranger… there are no fierce corpses? No yao? No gui? Where are those?”

A very good question. One that Lan Wangji was not sure he wanted to contemplate too closely. “Perhaps they no longer manifest here?” he suggested uneasily.

Manifest took a moment of explanation. Once clarified, however, Wei Wuxian simply raised an amused eyebrow. “Does no one die now?” he asked dryly.

Not the same way, Lan Wangji almost said. Not of violence. Not of plagues. Not of starvation.

Except that he knew that wasn’t true. Epidemics and starvation and simple misadventure might be less commonplace now, but that only made them more shocking when they did strike… and the Great Leap Forward and its devastating consequences was not that long ago, either. As for violence… Well. What had happened to his own parents was proof enough that it could and did happen.

“Could something be preventing them from manifesting?” he wondered aloud. “So that they cannot appear now?”

To his surprise, Wei Wuxian blanched. “Oh, that is a scary thought,” he said with feeling. “I hope that it is not so. That would be not good.”

An unexpected reaction. “Is suppression not one of the ways such things are handled?” Lan Wangji asked, glad that nothing in his bearing would betray that his question was based on fiction rather than scholarship.

“Suppression…?” Before Lan Wangji could respond, Wei Wuxian sketched a quick character in the air with his finger, then nodded with a soft, “ah,” apparently having puzzled out the meaning from context and what he had pieced together of sound changes over time. “Yes, it is. Ah… it was? But suppression does not let go or destroy. What you have suppressed, it is still there.” He smiled crookedly. “And suppression ends. Always. Suppression over all the known lands?” He widened his eyes dramatically, a look of comic shock to accompany it. “Yikes!”

And that was another Wen Yuan-ism skillfully deployed, Lan Wangji noted with amusement, before returning to the question at hand. “It would have been a massive undertaking. And one that would have had to be maintained actively.”

And he had to assume such a project should have generated records.

Granted, every single dynasty throughout all of recorded history had records boasting of the suppression of evil and chaos and the restoration of order, and the performance of proper rituals. Sorting out which claims were performative and which spoke of actual, efficacious practices would be… daunting. Especially because it was possible, even likely, that certain practices would have continued on a purely ritual basis even after their initial purpose had been forgotten.

Still. There might be something to find. He doubted any scholars had analyzed such practices on the assumption that the monsters and demons in question actually existed.

On the other hand… given that calm lands were historically taken as a sign that the Mandate of Heaven was secure, dynasties would have had cause to downplay the appearance of monsters. It was entirely possible that the suppression in question was of records of monsters, not the monsters themselves.

Although. He had to assume people would notice corpses getting up and walking around. To say nothing of a man-eating snake-tortoise so big that someone could stand on it without realizing what they were standing on.

Wei Wuxian rested his chin on the hands lying crossed over the back of the chair. “I wonder… Gusu Lan kept… Books, scrolls…” He freed one hand to wave vaguely in the direction of the shelves. “They let people come, sometimes.”

“A library?” A moment later, Lan Wangji wondered why that seemed such a surprise. Cloud Recesses had been dedicated to learning in various forms from the beginning of their existing records. Was it so shocking that the original clan had followed similar principles?

Although… the original Cloud Recesses that Lan Wangji had read about had been established as a Buddhist monastery. But while Lan Wangji could picture a monastery keeping records dealing with the suppression of evil and spiritual disorder – particularly in the early years of the Sui and Tang dynasties, when rulers frequently invoked Buddhas and bodhisattvas as means to legitimate their reigns – the passing references Wei Wuxian had made to the Gusu Lan had seemed more secular in nature. A powerful hereditary clan, rather than a spiritual community. “Would the library have kept cultivation records?”

Wei Wuxian… blinked. “Ah. I did not say? The Gusu Lan were a cultivator clan.”

…

Oh.

Oh.

Wei Wuxian smiled sheepishly as the silence stretched out. “The Gusu Lan were very proud of… studying? Records. Learning.” He grinned suddenly. “Lan Yi would have loved you.”

Lan Wangji swallowed, still feeling dazed. He was, perhaps, approaching his limit of how many times his view of the world could be upended in a single day. A single hour. “Lan Yi?” he asked.

“The zongzhu of the Lan.” Wei Wuxian chuckled affectionately. “She was a friend. And very scary!”

A very good friend, by that smile.

Lan Wangji shook his head slightly. That the Lan had been led by a woman… well. Historically, it was not impossible. There had been many powerful women throughout history, and Wu Zetian’s reign as Empress had been preceded by a number of female rebel leaders proving that men would, in fact, accept a strong woman’s leadership independent of a husband’s backing. But it was striking, given the history of conservatism at Cloud Recesses. Although, to be fair, it was likely that the pendulum of that trend had swung widely over the centuries.

He was also uncomfortably aware that he was, in the back of his mind, drinking vinegar over a woman who had been dead for fifteen hundred years. Regarding a man he had no right to be thinking of in such a way!

Fortunately, Wei Wuxian did not seem to have noticed his… lapse of rationality. “The… library? It burned before the war started. But the Gusu Lan saved many documents, and Lan Yi said they would bring back what was.”

“Did she succeed?” Lan Wangji asked. After all, something must have happened to lead the known records to claim that Cloud Recesses had been founded during the Tang. If it had been destroyed during the final decades before the rise of the Sui… perhaps that would account for the discrepancy.

Wei Wuxian hummed, resting his chin on his hands again. “The Lan went back, after the war. But building again? I don’t know.” His lips quirked in a small smile, soft and sad. “I did not get a chance to visit again.”

Lan Wangji had to look away from that smile for a moment. Then he straightened his shoulders. “Cloud Recesses today is dedicated to the study of our past.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head and blinked, back to bright-eyed curiosity again. “Ah! Is that why I am here, then?” he asked, and grinned toothily. “After all, I am very old!”

Strange to hear it stated so baldly, for all that he was correct. Oddly uncomfortable, Lan Wangji stubbornly forged on without answering, not wanting to get sidetracked. “Officially, our records go back to the Tang dynasty… but we may not have read them correctly. Obviously there is much that is missing. Or possibly misunderstood. Perhaps we should visit the archives.”

Wei Wuxian straightened eagerly, eyes sparkling. “I would like that!”

There. That was a much better expression for him. “I will make arrangements.”

Nie Huaisang scrolled through the comments on one of his social media accounts and very deliberately did not cackle at the various expressions of academic dubiousness arrayed around the table.

It wasn’t exactly an unusual reaction, after all. He was well aware that he was not, in any way, shape or form, what people expected when someone said “Nie Mingjue’s brother.”

Which just went to show that people, even accomplished Serious Scholars like this bunch, could be idiots. He’d figured out by the time he was six that there was no way anyone, let alone him, could out-Dage Dage. So why stress himself out over it? He admired his brother, he didn’t want to be him!

So he’d be Huaisang instead. And enjoy it to the hilt.

Still scrolling, he watched Lan Qiren’s rapidly purpling face closely out of the corner of his eye. That one was definitely the weak link of this group. He’d crack first.

And three, two…

With an easy flick of the wrist, he turned off the screen and lowered his phone. “First things first,” he said briskly. “Lan Xichen needs to be taken off the project immediately.”

Mouth already open to begin shouting, Lan Qiren spluttered, his train of thought completely derailed. The others…

Well, Dage just looked resigned to amusement; Nie Mingjue had known what he was getting into with Nie Huaisang, after all. Lan Xichen was blinking, obviously caught off guard by finding himself suddenly the topic of conversation. On the other side of the table, Doctor Wen’s eyebrows had shot up for a moment, followed by a cool, assessing sort of stare. And Lan Wangji…

Okay, he was impressed. That was one hell of a poker face. Or maybe his screen had just frozen. Really, bringing in one of the most important players over video chat? Yes, yes, quarantine, he got that, but really!

Still, he really needed to do something nice for Dage. The biggest bombshell ever ready and waiting to drop on an unsuspecting world, and on top of that a colorful cast of characters to play with – and he hadn’t even met the man of the moment yet!

Granted, he’d been following the Yiling Laozu story from the start. The stunning visuals! The heart-wrenching pathos! The bombastic international cat fights over jurisdiction! The fandom! The protests! The drama!

Not to mention that absolute storm of wild conspiracy theories swirling around and around and feeding on each other at every turn. At least one of which had turned out to be true. He could hear the minds being blown across the entire internet already. 

Seriously, it wasn’t even his birthday!

Although he did have to admit, dealing with Lan Qiren would not have been his first choice. He’d systematically flunked his way out of the academy for a reason, thank you.

“I’ve already stepped back from my role as project manager,” Lan Xichen said, as Lan Qiren continued to fume, at a loss for words.

Nie Huaisang shook his head. “That’s not going to be enough,” he said. A little regretfully; he liked Lan Xichen, after all, since they’d met a few times through Nie Mingjue’s social circles. Lan Xichen was a genuinely nice guy. The problem was that nice had dug a hole for the project that it was going to take some fast social footwork to dodge.

“He is a senior member of this project!” Lan Qiren snapped. “You are here as an advisor – do not presume to overstep yourself!”

Nie Huaisang held his phone up to his nose, which conveniently hid his smirk as he widened his eyes guilelessly. “You’re the ones who asked my advice about going public with your results,” he protested. “I’m advising!”

Then, deliberately, he arched a knowing eyebrow.

“And here’s my advice: Yiling Laozu is already a famous figure, and your project was controversial to begin with in the eyes of the public. When word gets out that he’s alive? That’s going to make headlines around the world. The amount of attention on the project is going to explode exponentially. Everyone is going to want in on the action. And that means the project will be under a microscope, with the sharks ready to strike at the first weakness they smell. And believe me, there’s plenty for them to choose from.” Slowly, he raised his other eyebrow and lowered his phone again so that they got the full effect of his unimpressed look. “I can spin a story that covers most of it – a dramatic unexpected awakening, the project scrambling to adapt, it’s the sort of narrative people eat up, and a few fumbles along the way will help sell it. Especially because it lets me set up some heroes!”

“But, that means getting on top of the worst parts first,” Nie Mingjue said, a humorless quirk to his lips. He’d been military, after all. He’d learned a few things about saving face after a SNAFU.

Lan Xichen smiled ruefully. “And the biggest mistake happened under my watch and my authority. I suppose, if we want to demonstrate to the world that we are taking the Yiling Laozu situation seriously, it would not look good for me to remain on the project in any sort of decision-making role… or at all, really.”

“You cannot simply—!”

Nie Huaisang blinked. “Director Lan, removing Lan Xichen is the bare minimum of action you can get away with. Really, if we were going to do this properly, you should step down as well, since it happened under your leadership. But changing the director of the project, making the position look unstable? That sort of vulnerability would be blood in the water to all those sharks.” He waved his free hand, the thumb of the other scrolling through the feeds again. Ooh, the protesters were arranging a cookout! He should definitely drop in for that. If Nie Mingjue’s hunch was correct, that was one of the most volatile parts of the whole situation. Best to pop in and take the pulse. And the menu looked fantastic. “Fortunately, you weren’t directly involved in those decisions,” he continued, not missing a beat. “So we can downplay your part; emphasize it happened behind your back, you were not aware, etcetera. Not a good look for you, but we can manage. It does help that Jin Zixun has been pulled off active involvement as well.”

“He is correct,” Lan Wangji said stiffly. “That was a violation of ethical and moral standards of conduct, on multiple levels. Willful ignorance is no excuse. That Lan Xichen alone is facing consequences will be hard enough to explain.” Oh, the screen wasn’t frozen. Apparently Lan Wangji’s face was just Like That.

Nie Huaisang huffed. The man was right, after all. By all rights, Yao Yingjie and Jin Zixun should have been out on their ears the day it happened, not just thoroughly sidelined. But unfortunately, they’d technically been acting within the authority granted by Lan Xichen, since Jin Zixun had been stopped before he could actually leave the building.

Plus, Dage was right. The fact that there hadn’t been an extremely public online temper tantrum from that direction yet was fishy.

And annoyingly convenient, if you had a certain suspicious turn of mind. Throw Jin Zixun out, and whoever was backing him would move – not to mention that aforementioned temper tantrum would blow everything wide open. Keep him on, and they would open themselves up to accusations of mismanagement by would-be meddlers… including, very likely, the one behind him.

Really, on a professional level, he was impressed. It was a very good setup. Derailing it was going to be a challenge!

However. Another part of him was raising mental eyebrows with interest. Because oh ho. That was not just offended ethical sensibilities speaking. Could it be that Lan Wangji was feeling protective? He had not seen that one coming!

Although he probably should have, stony lack of expression or no. Nie Mingjue hadn’t told him where they’d stashed Wei Wuxian after breaking him out of the lab (and he couldn’t believe Dage had let him miss out on that!), but it wasn’t like there were all that many options.

He was so, so very tempted to just show up and see what they did… but no. Wei Wuxian had sharp pointy things. And with Lan Wangji’s resting murder face, well, no one would ever know if his garden had some extra fertilizer added. No, he’d do what he did best and just pout and wheedle his way to an invitation! He would save the uninvited visit option in case people got obstinate about it – or in case he needed to make a point.

“You could shift over to the record-keeping side of things,” Nie Mingjue suggested to Lan Xichen. “Heavens know someone needs to stay on that. Misfiled paperwork has brought down more than one operation. And we don’t exactly have a surplus of people who know about Wei Wuxian to work on it.”

Lan Xichen’s lips quirked. “Letting me assist the project still, but removing me from any decision-making authority. Would that be enough of a demotion to satisfy our needs, Nie Huaisang?”

Eh… not ideal, but he could probably spin it. “It’ll do, so long as you actually stay out of the management of the project from here on. Which brings me to the next point.” He looked at Lan Qiren again. “You really need to get an official public release schedule on the books yesterday.”

Wen Qing tilted her head, one eyebrow quirking up. “I thought that was what we hired you for?”

He blinked at her and waved a hand. “Well, yes. And I’ll help. But I’m also telling you that whenever this goes public, the very first thing the world is going to ask will be why didn’t you notify everyone immediately?!, and you’re going to come off much better if you can say that you decided to make the announcement on this timeline for these reasons. We don’t have to get into specifics on when you made the decision.”

Especially because there was no way that they were actually going to get away with making the announcement on their own timetable. Something was going to blow. They’d come off better if they could say that there had been a plan.

And on that note. “Lastly,” he said, and looked at Lan Wangji. “Whatever plan we come up with, our odds of selling it are going to be a lot better if we have Wei Wuxian’s buy-in. So really, going forward, once the doctor clears it? He really ought to be in these meetings!”

Because really. All this plotting and the man playing the starring role wasn’t in on it? That was asking for trouble, and not the fun type!

Hm. An interesting set of reactions to that one. Not from Lan Wangji; that man had a face about as expressive as a jade statue. But Nie Mingjue and Wen Qing both blinked and glanced at each other, and he definitely caught a bit of sheepishness on his brother’s face.

Lan Qiren huffed. “I was led to believe that Wei Wuxian was not in a position to legally consent to anything,” he grumbled, and ooh, someone was apparently still bitter about being called out.

Wen Qing did not roll her eyes and there was no hint of exasperation in her tone, but she somehow managed to radiate a sense of you know better than that. Nie Huaisang was impressed. “Consenting to invasive testing and the use of his possessions by people who have extensive control over everything he does is not the same thing as having a seat at the table for decisions that will directly affect him more than anyone else,” she replied briskly. “He’s right. Wei Wuxian has the right to be part of the planning for how we reveal him to the modern world. At this point, I think he has enough language and context to participate—”

“Although, about that,” Nie Huaisang mused, tapping his phone against his cheek. “I understand you’re introducing him to history, the march of technology, that sort of thing, which is all well and good – but has anyone explained anything about modern culture? Cell phones? Politics? Social media? Fandom?”

Lan Wangji’s eyebrows twitched downward, an infinitesimal shift. Next to him, Lan Qiren scoffed. “Such things are hardly important.”

Nie Huaisang gaped at him. “Not important?” He flapped his hands in the air. “When word of this gets out, he’s going to be a celebrity!”

“He’s right,” Nie Mingjue said – ah, he knew that he could count on Dage! “Wei Wuxian needs to learn how to navigate modern culture, not just understand it. And like it or not, he’s going to be the living heart of an absolute media storm. He’ll need to understand what that means if he’s going to weather it… and we’ll be judged based on that.”

Lan Qiren still looked dubious, but at least not actively dismissive of the very concept anymore. Which meant it was time to shift the conversation so he could convince himself it had been his idea from the start… and maybe massage his ego a bit. “Going back to what we were talking about before, though, you really should make sure Wei Wuxian understands at least the concept of the project!” he said brightly. “I mean, possession is nine-tenths and all that, but your position will be a lot easier to defend if Wei Wuxian understands what the project is. You really still can’t ask for consent, but at least someone should officially explain the situation.”

Then he waited to see if they would follow that where he wanted them to. They should, this was a smart bunch, but blind spots were blind spots and it was always good to figure out how much hand-holding a project would take in the early stages.

“Lan Wangji can—” Lan Qiren began, which was pretty much as he’d expected.

The man in question shook his head, and how he managed to make that look cool and elegant and distant, Nie Huaisang was not sure. Truly a man of many talents! “It should not be me,” he said.

“It should not be any of us currently involved in Wei Wuxian’s care and support,” Wen Qing corrected. “We need to draw a clear distinction between the research interests of the project and Wei Wuxian’s support network. We don’t want him to get the impression that our help has strings attached, or that he’s obligated to cooperate.”

Nie Huaisang didn’t snort – after all, this was going in the right direction and there was no point getting off-track! But he did deliberately hold his phone up at a convenient angle to hide his expression as he checked a newsfeed and tippity-typed a few notes. Because by all accounts, Wei Wuxian was not stupid, and he came from a time when the cutthroat nature of politics had been much more literal, and vastly more complicated. He wouldn’t be so naïve as to think that there wouldn’t be strings. There were always strings. That was the nature of the game.

They just didn’t want him to assume the wrong strings – and, more importantly, anything that even hinted at coercion would definitely be something that could be used to rally public opinion against the project and create openings for opportunistic types to swoop in and take over with claims of benevolent intervention. So the point stood.

“You are the project director, sir,” Nie Mingjue said. “If we’re going to be official about this – and I think we should – then the explanation of the project should come from you.”

Lan Qiren huffed, but from the way he’d settled back in his chair, stroking his beard, the appeal to his seniority in the project pleased him. “I suppose it is more than high time that I introduce myself to the man, as well, now that he has had the opportunity to settle somewhat,” he said, and glanced at Wen Qing. “Presuming that it can be done without violating the quarantine policy?”

Excellent. This would go much more smoothly if they could get Lan Qiren engaged in the process, rather than grumbling from afar. And it did help that this approach definitely played to the man’s authority. Although from the hint of tightness in Wen Qing’s expression, and the way Lan Wangji seemed to become even more of an iceberg, if that was even possible, those two would be keeping a very close eye on that conversation.

Probably for the best. Lan Qiren had a reputation for brow-beating even when he didn’t want something from someone. Still. There were going to be lots of people wanting things from Wei Wuxian. They might as well see how he handled it now in controlled circumstances rather than waiting for the vultures to start circling.

Wen Qing drummed her fingers on the table, considering. “I’ve started him on the first round of vaccines, and he’s responded well so far,” she said. “I’d rather wait a bit before starting the next round, however, just to be sure. But once that’s done, he should at least be covered against some of the worst illnesses, the ones we don’t think about because we’re immunized as children.” She pursed her lips. “Better news, he seems to be right that his cultivation really does enhance his immune system – and it seems to enhance, rather than supplant.”

Nie Huaisang didn’t even try to hide the way he perked up with interest. Because he had all the questions! And while Nie Mingjue had given him a pretty thorough review of the circumstances of the project, he’d been annoyingly close-mouthed about Wei Wuxian himself, and especially the whole cultivator thing!

Other than that dropped tidbit about a flying sword. Nie Huaisang knew a taunt when one was dangled in front of his nose!

After all, it was what he would have done. In fact, he had plans on that front.

Still! It was the principle of it! How could Dage do this to him!

“I still don’t want Wei Wuxian exposed to large groups or younger children yet; the risk of exposure is still too high,” Wen Qing continued. “And I’d recommend against meeting in an enclosed space.” She nodded at the conference room screen, indicating Lan Wangji on his video call. “But I do think he’s ready to begin meeting people beyond the tight quarantine controls. So long as it’s on his terms and with his consent.”

Nie Huaisang snapped mental fingers in disappointment. Given that his own role was going to involve quite a bit of crowd-working, he should probably put off the wheedling for an introduction. Drat.

“Regarding that,” Lan Wangji said unexpectedly. “Wei Wuxian has expressed interest in learning what happened after the events he recalls of his time. I have been assisting him, but there are discrepancies in the historical accounts. If possible, I would like to show him the Cloud Recesses archives.”

Nie Huaisang didn’t squeak. But he did cackle internally. Oh, this whole thing just kept getting better! Not just the impossible magic survivor from the ancient past, but a mole in the ranks of the project and now possibly an ancient conspiracy to hide the truth of the past? It sounded like the pitch for a movie!

Really, the hardest part of all this was going to be convincing people that this wasn’t a hoax!

Lan Xichen smiled. “Perhaps you should give him a tour of the museum while you are at it? I imagine he would find it fascinating.”

Lan Wangji didn’t hesitate, exactly, but there was an edge of a pause before he said, “I do not think that would be appropriate.”

Nie Huaisang waved his phone. “I think it sounds like a great idea!” he countered, deliberately cheerful.

Lan Wangji looked at him flatly. “Seeing the things of his time on display as curiosities…”

Nie Huaisang shrugged. “It’s not like it’s not going to happen eventually. He already knows that to us, he’s from the distant past. No point in trying to protect him from reality, not when he’s going to be the curiosity on display once the press gets wind of him!” He grinned, deliberately poking. “So go take him to the museum. You can call it a date!”

OMAKE:

WWX: beaming smile! We can work on this very time-intensive project you are personally invested in together!
LWJ: LanWangji.exe has ceased to function…

NOTES:

Nie Huaisang is much more the slacking troublemaker of the Cloud Recesses lectures here than the professional Headshaker of the present-day timeline of canon, since he has no murderous San-ge to throw off his tracks and thus no life-or-death impetus to make himself look incompetent and harmless…

This chapter also pretty much sums up my take on Wei Wuxian’s actions against Wen Chao in the Xuanwu’s cave: they are at the “indoctrination” primarily as hostages. But if Wen Chao is willing to casually order some of them – especially Jin Zixuan, heir of a sect that the Wen hadn’t already gone after – killed? Then first of all, no amount of obeisance is going to keep them safe, and second, war is already being waged, even if there aren’t any armies marching yet. Taking Wen Chao hostage was the strategically smart move: it nullifies the guards, including Wen Zhuliu, and gets them a valuable hostage of their own. If the Xuanwu had shown up just a minute later, the other disciples would have been armed with swords taken from their captors – which wouldn’t have helped so much against the Xuanwu, but against just about anything else, it would have! And they’re isolated from the main enemy camp, making this their best chance to escape. And it would have worked, if not for the whole “legendary monster literally underfoot” problem. Which, y’know, understandable that he didn’t see that coming. In fact, it still worked: they survived and they escaped to warn their home sects. Unfortunately, rather than preparing, Jiang Fengmian opted to pursue diplomacy when that ship had already sailed.

As for the debt… some people have suggested that every single survivor of the Xuanwu’s cave would arguably have owed life debts to Jiang Cheng, Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, and yet it never comes up. Granted, conveniently ignoring debts unless forced otherwise is definitely part of the banality of evil in the MDZS setting… but it did occur to me that it might also explain how Jiang Cheng was cast in a pivotal role from the start of the Sunshot Campaign, despite technically being in an extremely weak position, so I decided to use that headcanon here.

I read a theory at one point that Wei Wuxian was basically low-key training his cultivation on the streets simply because he knew just enough to strengthen himself against cold and hunger and toxins… and as a result was using qi constantly. It seemed like a neat idea!

Contrary to popular fanon, I don’t recall anything that indicates Wei Wuxian is in the habit of ignoring medical advice. To my recollection, he only actively rejects medical help in the Xuanwu’s cave – and that’s a matter of how to use limited resources, not ignoring it – and with regards to the curse mark he transferred to himself from Jin Ling. Which, as he notes, is perfectly within his ability to handle and he is right. Volunteering his core is something else entirely. And while people may argue about what Lan Wangji really meant by “come to Gusu,” there’s no denying that Lan Wangji never framed that as medical treatment. I think the fanon comes mostly out of “Wei Wuxian doesn’t let people help him!” more generally… which also isn’t true to what happens in canon – he’s never offered help, except by Wen Ning. Again: no matter how you choose to interpret Lan Wangji’s “come to Gusu” insistence, he never frames that as help, nor denies Wei Wuxian’s assumption that the intent is punitive. Despite the fact that Wei Wuxian flat out says as much every time it comes up, at least that we see.

On a related note: Wei Wuxian drinking excessively and blowing off responsibilities after the war is specific to CQL. In the novel, Jiang Cheng never complains about his work – except for bitterness when people claim that new disciples are joining the Jiang because of Wei Wuxian. But in this AU, where Jiang Cheng has lost his core and no longer has an outside threat to focus his anger on and keep his insecurities under control… yeah. It was going to get messy no matter what, but that would not have helped things at all.

And here we get into one of the biggest AU elements for Wei Wuxian’s backstory vis-à-vis the original MDZS plot, one a lot of you have caught on to already: with Wen Qing and Wen Ning transplanted into the present-day part of the story, there wouldn’t have been a core transfer. And while I’m of the opinion that Wei Wuxian would have developed guidao regardless… Jiang Cheng being coreless would, IMHO, seriously change some of the later events.

One of the little ironies of Wei Wuxian’s cultivation is that the start of the novel, especially with the summoning ritual, gives you the impression that Wei Wuxian’s guidao involved a lot of scholarship… when in fact, he developed most of it in periods when he had no access to books or, in the beginning, even writing tools! Likewise, his “knowledge of dark arts” that we actually see in canon is based on his memories of browsing the public section of the Lan library as a bored teenager. (And likely the Jiang library as well; it’s never mentioned in the text, but we actually know very little about daily life for the Jiang, period! I went with the “sects don’t generally write techniques down” here based on what we know of the fake manuals, but there would have been a library.) Just another bit of misdirection…

And why would the Lan keep such records? Silly little headcanon that will probably never come up: given that the Lan were founded by a monk, and I’m setting the MDZS backstory for this fic in the period between the Han and Sui dynasties? They may well have been the new kids on the block with regards to the sects, because Buddhism didn’t become widespread until after the fall of the Han. (Nor did the religious version of Daoism, for that matter.) Meaning in turn that Lan An may well have been a foreign immigrant, or at least closely tied to immigrants. Careful record-keeping and strict adherence to Rules and Tradition would have been a way to establish legitimacy. (Plus, well, Cloud Recesses basically functioning as a monastery.)

And given that we’re told that the abyss would take years and massive effort to cleanse? How many other problems like that would have been out there, but after the deaths of the Sunshot Campaign no one remembered where they were, what they were, or how and when to renew the seals? All sorts of casefic plot opportunities there!

Fun fact! Given that “Qishan” is likely modern Shaanxi province, Nightless City is likely meant to be a Fantasy Analogue of Chang’an. Although, with regards to sects and borders: given the Wen marching around dictating who could go on night hunts, Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling (and the Lans!) blithely showing up at Mount Dafan, Jin Ling and Jiang Cheng again near the Nie tombs in Qinghe, junior disciples from at least three different sects all showing up in Yi, the Jin setting up the temple in Yunping… I’d say it’s pretty clear that “territory” is not a major factor in the social landscape of the sects!

Wu Zetian was the only woman to rule China in her own name, beginning around 660 – about a hundred fifty years after Wei Wuxian’s time, as I’ve set it for this fic. She’s definitely an example of “well-behaved women don’t make history,” although of course almost all of our sources about her are not exactly friendly. The comment about her being preceded by female rebel leaders comes from Worldly Saviors and Imperial Authority in Medieval Chinese Buddhism, by April Hughes.

Chapter Text

“Now that,” Wei Wuxian murmured to himself, the night breeze above the new Cloud Recesses tugging at his hair, “is truly a nightless city.”

He’d avoided sword flight, this past month. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anywhere in particular that he needed to be, and with his core so oddly strained, he hadn’t exactly been inclined to indulge in trick-flying for the fun of it, especially when there was no one to fly with! Not to mention that it was generally considered rude, or at least uncouth, to fly outside of training or travel.

Not that he’d ever let that stop him. Flying was fun, and contrary to what some masters seemed to believe, having fun was not antithetical to cultivation!

More to the point, flying tended to be rather conspicuous, and it had been obvious from the moment Wen Qing had led him out of that room that conspicuous was something to avoid. And after seeing Wen Yuan’s reaction to sword flight… well. It was rather obvious that he’d be very noticeable.

Granted, people tended not to look up. There was a reason he’d gotten into the habit of heading to the rooftops when he wanted to avoid people at cultivation conferences. Still. There was a difference between hiding on a rooftop and hovering in midair and casting a shadow where no shadow had any business appearing.

But after confirming that yes, this was Cloud Recesses… well. He’d wanted a proper look what the place had become over the centuries.

So. Flying by daylight was a bit too conspicuous, but by night… Damping Suibian’s flare was tricky, yes, but he’d done it plenty, wandering during the Yunmeng nights while Lotus Pier slept and scouting by night during the war. And with the brilliant electrical lights that lined the walkways of the complex, no one looking up was going to see anything.

So, night-flying it was!

Except, by the time he’d gotten high enough to take in the whole of the complex spread out across the side of the mountain… he’d been high enough to see the city at the mountain’s foot.

The Caiyi he remembered had been anything but small. The Gusu Lan may have taken pride in their ascetic seclusion far from the distractions of the world, but Caiyi had been a lively city – and even livelier when many of those ascetic disciples came down the mountain to cut loose for the evening.

But this…

Lines of light glittering like dew on a spiderweb catching candlelight and sending up a glow that would put even the biggest festivals to shame stretched all the way to the horizon – even seen from this height. Here and there, the pattern was broken by clusters of impossibly tall, thin buildings, taller even than Jinlintai, rising like needles or perhaps the stone forests of Shilin Yi he’d heard about, each one shining with its own light from countless windows.

And then there were the colors. Dominant was the warm golden glow that his mind associated with candles and lanterns, although intellectually he knew they were almost certainly electrical lights. He could also make out brilliant festival-lantern red – if brighter than any lanterns he’d ever seen! – along the straight thoroughfares and blinking (of course they were blinking!) at the tips of the spires. But everywhere he looked, his eyes caught on searing white brilliance like captured starlight, to say nothing of even stranger colors, poison-bright greens and blues and even pinks!

There were other oddities. Those thoroughfares, for example: roads or canals, almost certainly. But in addition to what he assumed were street lamps (and his mind kept trying to calculate how much fuel all those lamps would demand before he remembered, right, they wouldn’t run on oil), there were other lights moving along them. Carriages or boats, he assumed, but much faster than any he’d seen—

Well. Some moved faster. Others… heh. Apparently the problem of traffic congestion hadn’t changed much!

Then there was the other oddity: a shadowed swatch in the sea of over-bright lights, broken only by a small handful of smaller lights moving slowly across it. From here, it almost looked like…

Oh. Wait. That was Lake Biling. It was just that the city had expanded around it, effectively swallowing the lake into itself. Which meant—

Wei Wuxian blinked, eyebrows raised.

Just how many people live there now?!

And now he was curious – what had happened to the abyss in the lake? The last he’d heard, the Lan had been making arrangements to seal and cleanse it…

But then Cloud Recesses had burned, and then there had been the war. Besides interrupting the cleansing process, all that destruction would have flowed down the mountain and ultimately strengthened the abyss. Worse, with the loss of disciples over the course of the subsequent war, the Gusu Lan might not have been able to address the issue of the abyss, even when the war was over.

Unaddressed resentment generally did not just go away. It tended to fester.

Granted, fifteen hundred years was a very long time! More than long enough for someone, somewhere, eventually, to have handled the situation. On the other hand, with the strange way any account of cultivation seemed to have simply vanished from the records…

Well. Whatever had happened, there wasn’t exactly anything he could do about it at the moment, other than marking it in his mind as something to check on later if he found an opportunity. This was probably not the best time to pop over to the lake for a look-see! Especially when he didn’t know how things had changed in the city or for the common people in general, beyond lots.

Not that he wasn’t itching to go down there and explore, just on general principles – and because he wanted to see more of this strange future he’d ended up in. After all, he was going to be living in this world from here on, he might as well get to know it!

Something to ask Lan Wangji about. But for now, as fascinating – and pretty – as the vast plain of lights spread out below was, he had come up here for a reason.

And really, the scene spread out directly beneath him was also very pretty, if in a quieter way than the blazing city. None of the wild colors or fast-moving lights (not to mention the absence of flashing and blinking!), but there was a gentle sort of warmth to the lamps following the flowing curves of the footpaths threaded through the complex, strikingly different from the sharp straight lines of the city. From where he stood on Suibian above the complex, the effect was very much like the night lamps he remembered – if significantly brighter and steadier.

In fact, now that he had the city for comparison, he was quite sure that the initial impression he’d had of the complex was correct. Someone, or more likely generations of someones, had gone to quite a bit of trouble to maintain a particular atmosphere in Cloud Recesses. Appropriate, given what Lan Wangji had said about the place being dedicated to the study of the past, and somehow a very very Lan thing to do… which just made it funnier that it also made the place remind him of the rebuilt parts of Lotus Pier all the more.

He could just imagine the scandalized looks on Jiang Cheng’s and the Lans’ faces if they’d heard that!

Not all of the complex was quite so brightly lit. The upper level that backed onto the wooded area where the Cold Springs and Lan Wangji’s home were did have them, but they were sparser and more scattered among the relatively dense structures. Given that area seemed to be the original core of the complex, he suspected that either someone had judged the addition of electrical lights disruptive to the desired ambiance, or the lights themselves were deemed too difficult or expensive to add to an existing area, much the way ancestral wards were rarely changed due to both the resistance of established tradition and the difficulty of changing sigils that usually had been carved into the very foundations.

Which… Wei Wuxian squinted and drifted a little higher, trying to get a sense of the overall form of the older complex. Unfortunately, those lovely lights were working against him! Yes, the glare made him harder to spot against the night sky, but it also made it harder for him to pick out the details of the layout. Still, if he took what he saw and matched it in his mind’s eye to the map that Lan Wangji had provided him in service of their subterfuge…

Well, it did look like the heart of the complex was at least similar to what he remembered visiting seven years and quite a few centuries ago. Although there were a few interesting absences; for one thing, he hadn’t seen any sign of that dreaded wall of rules!

Hm. Maybe Lan Yi had gotten rid of it the way she’d occasionally threatened; she’d complained more than once that it was a legacy of Lan An’s attempt to have things both ways, leaving the monastery to be with his fated one only to bring the monastery with him in all but name.

“Which works for a community of monks. Not so much if you want a functional clan!” she’d grumbled. “Master Kong warned against trying to dictate morals with rules for a reason!”

Still, he doubted she’d actually have done it. For all she’d inveighed against some of her sect’s more hidebound practices, Lan Yi had cared about its traditions. More likely the wall had been destroyed or obscured during one of the many purges of this religion or that custom; Wen Yuan’s excellent history book had already mentioned several, and Wei Wuxian doubted they’d become any less frequent over time. Odds were that the Wen incident had been far from the last time Cloud Recesses had burned and been rebuilt!

For that matter, he knew it wasn’t. He’d seen the signs of recent rebuilding himself… and met the ghosts.

Still. Something about the layout felt odd. Like something teasing just at the edge of recognition, but different enough that the similarities refused to come into focus.

Granted, part of that was the change in the fengshui. Cloud Recesses had been founded here not only for the Cold Springs, but for the natural flow of energy; the mountains created a shielding wall that warded off the shifting energy flows of the outside world, with the complex settled on the southeastern slope of the mountains, and thus shielded from the northwest and the demon gate by the bulk of the peak. The complex itself had echoed and enhanced the effect, creating an island of still serenity, aloof from the mortal world not only physically but in its very energy.

That thought led to another, and Wei Wuxian suddenly choked on a snort, biting his sleeve so he didn’t waste all his efforts to be inconspicuous by cackling madly in midair. Because… well, apparently there’d been something to his silly thought that he’d somehow awakened in a community of immortals secluded from the world, because that had definitely been the original intent of the place!

He’d found it stifling as a teenager. Yunmeng Jiang was… well, had been a sect embedded in the flowing waters and rivers, with a cultivation philosophy of challenging oneself and growth through striving – very much of the world, rather than holding remote from it. It had been interesting to discuss the philosophies of their sects with Lan Yi and realize that the two opposite paths actually both held the same ultimate ideal.

Of course, that had been then. The Cloud Recesses of now… For one thing, the fall of part of the peak of the southern mountain had altered the natural fengshui somewhat, adding turbulence to what had been a smooth flow. It seemed as though the layout of the complex had been modified to compensate, but in the process an underlying pattern had been disrupted.

The problem was, he couldn’t make out what that underlying pattern had been.

Shaking his head in amusement, Wei Wuxian guided Suibian down towards the quiet area near the Cold Springs he’d taken off from. That was enough for a preliminary scouting run! And Lan Wangji had said that they would be able to visit the archives in a day or two – perhaps they might look for some older maps showing the original layout, for the sake of his curiosity.

Honestly, what he was most looking forward to was the “museum” that Lan Wangji had mentioned. Lan Wangji and Wen Yuan had explained the basic concept, and it sounded fascinating: a whole hall dedicated to exploring and explaining the ways of the past – and open for anyone to visit, no less.

Granted, he’d raised a mental eyebrow at that. There might not be wards requiring a jade token for anyone to come or go – and oh, the look on Lan Wangji’s face when he’d mentioned that! – but Cloud Recesses was still not exactly what he’d call easily accessible.

Still! He was looking forward to seeing what these people had made of the past – and, maybe, laughing at the parts they’d gotten wrong, because there would certainly be a few. And he was also curious to see how they presented the ages between then and now – not to mention seeing what people had come up with over the centuries!

Besides, it was going to be nice to get out and start actually doing things again. Between the duties of a first disciple, fighting a war, rebuilding Lotus Pier and then cleansing the Burial Mounds… he wasn’t really used to idleness anymore. And while Lan Wangji and Wen Yuan were lovely, he was curious about what this new society was like.

So it would make for an interesting excursion. And maybe when they were done, he could ask Lan Wangji about more of such ventures – perhaps even down the mountain to see what Caiyi had become!

Lan Wangji was startled to see his brother standing at the door to the Cloud Recesses museum.

Lan Xichen smiled at his pause. “I’ve fully stepped down from the project,” he said, answering Lan Wangji’s first unspoken question. “Huaisang was correct, it was inappropriate for me to continue after my previous missteps. Still, I feel as though I owe Wei Wuxian an apology. I thought perhaps a tour of the collections would be appreciated?”

Lan Wangji hesitated. Technically, he should decline; access to the collections was the responsibility of the curators. But… while the museum displays were certainly well done, the bulk of the collections were kept in the back archives – including several items he would particularly like to show Wei Wuxian. And while his research meant he’d spent a great deal of time in the collections, he did not have free access to them, and Wei Wuxian’s circumstances made the normal protocol of submitting a formal research request somewhat… difficult. He had been resigned to waiting until the project went public, but… “Have you cleared it with the head curator?”

“Uncle did,” Lan Xichen assured him.

Ah. That made more sense. As an accomplished archaeologist and head of the department, Lan Qiren had the authority to clear such special tours, although the archivists had likely assumed that he would be accompanying the visitors.

“Then thank you,” he said at last. He was not entirely sure he liked skirting proper protocols in such a manner, but… needs must.

Lan Xichen smiled – and then blinked as Wei Wuxian leaned around Lan Wangji to look at him.

“Ah! I remember you,” he said cheerfully, and stepped past Lan Wangji to bow a greeting – in the modern manner, but executed with the reflexive precision of someone who had grown up in a world where an incorrect depth of bow could be a mortal insult, a juxtaposition that Lan Wangji couldn’t help finding charming. “I apologize for our uncomfortable first meeting,” he added, his words formal but lightened by a wry smile at his own understatement.

Lan Xichen had visibly started when Wei Wuxian spoke, and he was still blinking a little too rapidly as he bowed in response. “I… believe the apology should be mine,” he said, oddly hesitant in a way that almost turned the statement into a question before he rallied himself and added, “You were understandably confused, and there was no harm done. Do not concern yourself with it.”

Wei Wuxian smiled brightly as he straightened, and then it was his turn to hesitate. “Ah…” he started, a flicker of his eyes betraying that he was searching his memory for the appropriate phrase before he huffed slightly. “What is your name?” he asked, a rueful smile showing his awareness that the question was rudely direct.

Lan Wangji made a mental note. They had covered basic questions like asking for names that very first day, but they’d never gone back to go over the proper etiquette and polite phrasing; there’d been no need before this, and he had not anticipated someone meeting them at the museum. An oversight, and one they would need to correct before his uncle came for a formal introduction. Even knowing better intellectually, Lan Qiren would react as if it were intentional rudeness, rather than the natural fumbles of someone speaking an unfamiliar language, and that was a negative first impression they did not need.

Fortunately, his brother was far less rigid in his expectations. Smiling, he tilted his head. “That’s right, I never properly introduced myself, did I? I am Lan Xichen. I am Wangji’s older brother.”

Wei Wuxian brightened. “So that is why you have…” He paused. “Hm. Look that is similar?”

“Resemblance,” Wen Yuan provided.

Wei Wuxian snapped his fingers. “That!”

Lan Xichen chuckled. “Yes; we were sometimes mistaken for twins when we were younger,” he added, and Lan Wangji…

He was mostly trying not to glower. Lan Xichen hid it well under social graces, but his brother was staring.

Admittedly, Wei Wuxian struck a striking image. He was dressed in modern clothing, as had been his practice since leaving the lab. His original robes had been carefully stored away for safekeeping in his room, following the best preservation practices Lan Wangji could achieve without sending them to a curator; that was a choice he felt Wei Wuxian should make for himself, when the time came. But on some whim – perhaps because this was his first “formal” outing – he’d chosen to wear the outfit that Lan Wangji had initially provided, the one that had been chosen specifically to make his identity clear while being undeniably modern, separating Wei Wuxian the living man from Yiling Laozu, the body in the ice.

It was also very, very flattering, and Lan Xichen was absolutely taking note of the way the clothes showed off Wei Wuxian’s powerful shoulders, trim waist, and long legs.

Long, muscular, and very nice legs.

Lan Wangji was not going to glare. Lan Xichen was just looking – most likely too distracted by the overall effect to note the details. And it was aesthetic appreciation only; he knew perfectly well that his brother had no particular interest in men. And he would have no right to object even if it were otherwise.

Besides. Lan Xichen would notice Lan Wangji trying to kill him with his eyes. And that was a conversation that Lan Wangji had no intention of having with his brother. Ever.

And while Lan Wangji was preoccupied with his own ridiculousness, Lan Xichen smiled at Wei Wuxian and Wen Yuan. “The museum is technically closed today; we’ll have the place to ourselves for as long as we like,” he said, directing his words to the teenager. “I trust you know the exhibits well enough to give the tour?”

Wen Yuan had the decorum to not whoop out loud, but he definitely bounced in a way that suggested that he was doing an internal fist pump before reaching out to grab Wei Wuxian’s hand. “Come on, you’re going to love this!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Wei Wuxian laughed, letting himself be tugged along in the boy’s enthusiastic wake and leaving Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen to follow along behind them at a more dignified pace.

Stepping inside, Lan Wangji allowed himself a moment to let the cool air, the quiet, the echoing spaces and the weight of time sink in. The museum had been one of his favorite places even as a child – had probably put him on his first steps to his vocation. Every time he walked through the doors, he had a sense of coming home.

It wasn’t a large museum, by conscious design; after the upheavals of the Cultural Revolution, it had seemed impolitic (dangerous) to be too obvious about their ties to the ancient past. With good reason; the archives had been one of the buildings targeted when the historic complex had been attacked and burned. But by some amazing stroke of luck, the contents of the archives had survived virtually undamaged, and the building that held them suffered mostly superficial damage, although the buildings around it had burned almost to the ground.

But the destruction had also been a blessing of sorts, prompting a deep review of the complex’s architectural history as they sought to rebuild it as completely and accurately as possible. They had even opened several archaeological excavations around the lost buildings to better understand their history and ground-truth the written records; Lan Qiren had been part of those when he was young. 

The core of the museum sprang from that research, with the permanent exhibit tracing the history of the complex and its evolution across the centuries from a small monastic community to the university of today. The exhibits were not elaborate; each section was devoted to a particular era of the complex’s history, featuring a small scale model of the layout and a narrative of what life at Cloud Recesses would have been like and the role it had played in the local community, with space set aside for the discussion of any particularly notable events that might have occurred. Each section also held a regularly rotated set of two or three artifacts from the collection, explaining their origins, uses, and significance to the time period in question.

It will have to be expanded, Lan Wangji realized with a sense of wonder. It would not happen immediately, of course; no responsible scholar would rely on a single source for their information, not even an eyewitness’s account. It would have to be checked, verified against known sources, previous conclusions tested against the new information to see what insights might be gleaned, new research conducted… The process would take years, most likely.

But it was a dizzying prospect even so – that one day there would be a section of the museum devoted to the time before the monastery, when Cloud Recesses had been the enclave of a clan dedicated to actual cultivation.

“…and this is what it would have looked like at the height of the Tang dynasty, before the Five Dynasties period. But a lot of scholars think they expected trouble, because the wall around the complex was reinforced then, and – oh! They have the scrolls on display, you have to see this!”

Lan Wangji carefully did not laugh as Wen Yuan’s practiced narrative fell aside when the boy rushed to the plinth holding a set of guqin scores written by one of the monks. Wei Wuxian had been studying the model of the complex with thoughtful intensity, but he willingly let Wen Yuan lead him away to gush over the scores. Wen Yuan had volunteered at the museum many times, but it was obvious that his enthusiasm over showing his favorites to Wei Wuxian had completely overcome any attempt at poise.

“He’s very good with A’Yuan, isn’t he?” Lan Xichen murmured, watching them.

He sounded… surprised, and Lan Wangji raised a mental eyebrow. After all, his brother had been right there when Wei Wuxian had stepped between Wen Yuan and an overreacting man holding a gun, and then comforted Wen Yuan afterwards when the stress of the situation had caught up with the boy. Surely it had been obvious that Wei Wuxian was good with him?

Then again… Lan Xichen had been, with good reason, rather distracted; it made sense that certain details would not have registered with him. And, of course, protecting a child in a fraught situation and helping him through the aftermath was not the same as letting an overexcited teenager pull him about, or earnestly engaging that teenager in conversation about his favorite artifacts. Especially when Lan Xichen did not know that they were housemates and had had plenty of opportunities to become comfortable with each other.

For that matter… intellectually, of course, Lan Xichen was aware that Wei Wuxian was a living, active, intelligent man. But at a subconscious level, his concept of the man was still dominated by the motionless corpse in the ice. He still referred to Wei Wuxian as “Yiling Laozu” most of the time. At most, Lan Xichen knew Wei Wuxian as a tall figure in ancient robes, unable to communicate beyond gestures, disoriented and confused. Quite the contrast from the bright-eyed man in modern clothing, speaking modern Mandarin and letting a teenager lead him about.

It occurred to him, rather suddenly, that while his reports had contained factual information about Wei Wuxian and his progress, it had not occurred to him to convey anything about Wei Wuxian’s character or personality, except inasmuch as such things impacted his adaptation to life in the modern world. Lan Xichen had only met him in the chaos of that first day; only in the context of an isolated, extraordinary single event. In a very real sense, this was the first time he’d really been able to see Wei Wuxian moving through the world as a person.

And the observation certainly was not wrong.

“I wonder if he had children,” Lan Xichen added, as Wei Wuxian scanned the score and then hummed part of it, to Wen Yuan’s obvious delight. And Lan Wangji’s shock; he had been under the impression that the Gongche notation system had not been used until the Tang period, but clearly Wei Wuxian was familiar with it.

Belatedly realizing that Lan Xichen’s comment had actually been an indirect question, Lan Wangji gathered his distracted thoughts. “I have not asked,” he admitted. Thus far, he had avoided asking more personal questions, in his efforts to honor the fine balance between the natural ebb and flow of conversation, simple curiosity, unwanted prying, and illicit research. Questions about larger scale historical events such as the war were relatively safe, especially because Wei Wuxian himself had been asking many of the questions. Inquiring after his personal life and relationships felt far too much like fishing for gossip. The story about the Xuanwu and Wen Chao was the closest they had come to Wei Wuxian’s personal history.

He was still trying to wrap his mind around the giant man-eating turtle-snake part.

Still, if he were to venture a guess, he suspected Wei Wuxian had not been married; he was still relatively young for such things by the standards of his era, and it seemed as if recent events had been too hectic for arranging marriages. More likely, he’d been a teacher in charge of his sect’s disciples.

…Maybe. Daily life in the cultivation sects and the individual characters of the sects and clans were another area Lan Wangji had opted to tread lightly around asking about. It had felt dangerously close to straying into his own personal research interests. So most of what he knew or had surmised was extrapolated from offhand comments – like the fact that Wei Wuxian was clearly in the habit of referring to his sect heir and later leader by his personal name, despite being approximately the same age and presumably subordinate in social status, given that he did not carry the clan name. Thus far, Lan Wangji’s initial guess of personal retainer, or perhaps a high-ranking sect disciple, seemed the most probable explanation. But it was more guesswork and supposition than anything concrete.

In fact, he had to wonder if Wei Wuxian had been clear about his status, as odd as that thought was in the context of the rigidly hierarchical society of ancient nobility. But it was possible that the man’s position had been deliberately liminal in some way. But that, too, was nothing more than guesswork and supposition.

Lan Xichen chuckled. “Well, I think A’Yuan has things well in hand, so I’ll stop distracting you,” he said lightly, eyes dancing.

Chagrined that his wandering thoughts were so obvious, Lan Wangji inclined his head. “You will not accompany us?”

Lan Xichen smiled wryly. “I’m sure you and A’Yuan can manage without me underfoot! Besides, Huaisang was correct – it will not look good for the project if I involve myself any more than absolutely necessary, after everything. Just come find me when you’re ready to see the collections; I’ll be in the main office.”

For just a second, he hesitated, smile faltering as he glanced at Wei Wuxian to reveal a perplexed, almost nonplussed expression, before he turned and walked away.

Likely re-evaluating many of his decisions after being confronted with the reality of Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji suspected. He sighed. Truthfully, if they had been able to properly introduce Wei Wuxian to the project team rather than keeping him isolated in the lab, it would likely have circumvented a great deal of trouble, and avoided many of the problems haunting the project now.

But, of course, at the time that had been impossible, thanks to the barriers of language and understanding and, of course, the quarantine. Even this meeting had only happened after Wen Qing had given a cautious go-ahead.

“Professor Lan!”

With a blink, he looked away from Lan Xichen’s retreating back and over to where Wen Yuan was waiting next to the entrance to the temporary exhibit gallery, waving an arm as Wei Wuxian watched with undisguised amusement.

Lan Wangji raised an eyebrow and Wen Yuan flushed, apparently aware that his volume and energetic motions were definitely pushing the edges of the appropriate decorum for a museum, private viewing or no. But the boy continued to beckon him enthusiastically – if with slightly more restraint than before – and so Lan Wangji walked over.

“It’s your exhibit on display, Professor,” Wen Yuan explained as Lan Wangji joined them. “You should be the one showing him that!”

His exhibit? Lan Wangji flicked his eyes through the door, then realized. It was not actually his exhibit per se; the history and medical departments had collaborated on an exhibit that traced the history of medicine and healing practices from ancient times to the present. However, he had been tapped as a primary consultant for his work on ancient folklore and religio-magical practices – most of which had been deeply intertwined with concerns about sickness, health and healing.

Privately, he suspected that his uncle’s insistence that he participate in the Yiling Laozu project had more than a little to do with Lan Qiren’s offended sensibilities over Lan Wangji’s “foolish hobby” being treated as serious academic expertise worthy of consultation, an attempt to humble literature and lore by contrasting them with “proper science.”

Although if that had been the case, his uncle’s intentions had backfired spectacularly.

With everything that had happened in the Yiling Laozu project, he’d forgotten that the exhibit was still open. Understanding Wen Yuan’s intention now, Lan Wangji inclined his head in acceptance and led the way through the arch that separated the special exhibit space at the back of the museum. It was an older part of the structure, with a low raised platform in the center, featuring small extensions in each of the cardinal directions. It had probably once served a ceremonial purpose, but it served equally well now to display key artifacts for the exhibits.

“The exhibit is a timeline, beginning with the Xia dynasty,” Lan Wangji explained, as Wei Wuxian eyed the platform, the columns and the displays around the room, all with equal interest. “The displays on the wall explain how medicine changed over time. The cases show items used to treat injuries and diseases in those times.”

Wei Wuxian glanced at the panels on the walls, but after a moment shook his head slightly and redirected his attention to the artifact displays. Understandable; the history panels were rather text-heavy. To Lan Wangji, the summary of the history was almost frustratingly short and lacking in detail, but for a layperson, even one who was a native speaker, they were probably a little overwhelming. For Wei Wuxian… well. While his grasp of the simplified characters and more vernacular grammar was impressive, it was still fundamentally an unfamiliar language.

Then Wei Wuxian immediately headed for the modern day part of the exhibit, and Lan Wangji had to bite back the reflex to correct him – because it was a timeline, you couldn’t appreciate the logical progression of change over time unless you began at the beginning and followed the timeline forward…

Except, of course, to Wei Wuxian it would be the modern day technology that was the most intriguing. What would be the point of defamiliarizing modern medicine by setting it in historic context to someone for whom it was already unfamiliar?

Although. Knowing Wei Wuxian as he now did, Lan Wangji was unsurprised when the man finished in the modern day section and then, rather than working his way backwards, promptly cut across the room to look at the most ancient part instead, the medicine decanters from the Xia, the ritual vessel painted with figures thought to be performing a healing dance, the display of inscriptions from the Shang oracle bones. Just the reproduced inscriptions; they’d discussed putting some of the oracle bones themselves on display, but ultimately decided against it in favor of emphasizing the written elements.

Wei Wuxian, he noted, paused longer at those, reading the short explanations accompanying the individual artifacts with a look of fascination. It made Lan Wangji wonder – had he seen such things before? Tomb robbing had existed since tombs were first created, and the upheavals of the disunified period would have been ripe opportunity for such things.

Then again. Wei Wuxian was apparently accustomed to dealing with demons and ghosts. It was entirely possible he’d encountered such things in a different context entirely.

That was an unsettling thought.

Wen Yuan was glancing at him curiously, obviously having expected him to take a more active role. But Lan Wangji was content to follow Wei Wuxian’s lead, answering the occasional absent question while he watched Wei Wuxian’s reactions as the man made his way through the displays. Particularly as he reached the section dedicated to his own time period. He read the descriptions with the same interest he’d shown for everything else, and it was fascinating to watch the reactions dancing across that mobile face: interest, amusement, bemusement – and at least once a very poorly disguised snicker at what was apparently an amusingly erroneous interpretation.

Well. He was looking at an analysis of the Yellow Court Classic and how it led to the concept of the three elixir fields. Given that the interpretation had been written by scholars who had been writing on the assumption that such cultivation was not actually possible, it would have been stranger if there hadn’t been any errors.

Lan Wangji soothed his wounded pride with the thought that he could consult with Wei Wuxian on how to correct the errors.

Assuming the man was interested.

Lan Wangji had to do a mental double take at that thought. On some level he’d simply assumed that Wei Wuxian would naturally care about such things…

But Lan Wangji was a scholar who had dedicated years of training and effort to understanding the past. Wei Wuxian had simply lived it. His interest in history was at least partly because he was trying to wrap his mind around a changed world – and to try to learn what had happened to the friends and family and even the spiritual culture he’d known.

Now that he thought about it, rather than unquestioningly assuming… it occurred to Lan Wangji that Wei Wuxian might well not even want to dedicate the rest of his life to the past he’d left behind. Might find it an unwanted or even painful reminder of what he’d lost. Given his temperament, the eager way he’d thrown himself into learning about how things had changed, he might well prefer to embrace the modern world wholeheartedly, rather than keeping one foot mired in an ancient time that he would never be able to return to.

Which… raised an interesting question, one he hadn’t considered before: what would Wei Wuxian do with himself, when the dust had settled? Nie Huaisang was correct that he would always have the celebrity of his circumstances haunting his footsteps, but celebrity was not in itself a livelihood. Nor did Wei Wuxian strike Lan Wangji as the sort to be content relying on fame and public attention to fill his time; the man was too intelligent and too active for idleness to appeal.

Granted, he wasn’t without skills. Lan Wangji could just imagine how many people would leap at the chance to learn the sort of cultivation that let one ride a flying sword or walk on the surface of the water. Setting up such a school would not be easy; there would be questions of accreditation, location, how students would be selected, how many students, how to pay for everything…

But it would be an incredible endeavor. One that Lan Wangji would love to see realized – assuming that was something Wei Wuxian was interested in.

He was resolutely ignoring the part of his mind that was making suggestions about where he might fit into that hypothetical long-term future. It was not helpful.

Besides. The question of what Wei Wuxian might do for a living was effectively a moot point until the man had learned enough of modern language and culture to begin actually integrating into the modern world. At the moment, making an independent living for himself wasn’t even an option.

And in the meantime, Wei Wuxian had almost completed his circuit of the exhibit. A quiet word sent Wen Yuan trotting off (and then, sheepishly, speed-walking) to find Lan Xichen, while Lan Wangji gathered himself and approached Wei Wuxian.

Looking up from a set of Song Dynasty apothecary scales and the accompanying summary of the way technological advances had influenced the making of medicines, Wei Wuxian grinned at him. “You made this?” he asked, a flicker of his hand indicating the entire gallery.

“I assisted,” Lan Wangji corrected, feeling oddly… anxious, perhaps. It was the same butterflies-in-his-stomach sensation that he recalled from his classes in the guqin as a child, when his teachers had insisted that he perform in recitals. Which was ridiculous; he had no cause for stage jitters when he’d only been a consultant on the exhibit.

And yet… it did feel strangely personal, watching Wei Wuxian study the displays that represented the final project that Lan Wangji had worked on before the unexpected reality of a living, breathing Yiling Laozu had turned everything on its head.

Wei Wuxian stepped back, looking out over the exhibit as a whole. “The past is important to you,” he commented.

“Yes.” How could it not be? The present was built upon the past.

Wei Wuxian glanced at him, eyes amused, and Lan Wangji realized he was doing it again – leaving the conversation, and the relationship, entirely one-sided. Chagrined, Lan Wangji gathered his thoughts for a moment, and then continued. “We must learn from the past. Too many things are too easily forgotten or ignored.” Witness the mysterious disappearance of the arts of mystical cultivation as Wei Wuxian practiced them!

And… he’d intended to leave it at that. But when he looked at brightly attentive grey eyes, he found himself unexpectedly adding, “And… my mother loved stories of ancient times. I remember she would often tell them to me, before she died. I was a child, and they were… important.” Precious, he almost said, but the word would not come to his mouth.

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian said, quiet and a little startled by the confession. He glanced at the exhibit again. “I don’t remember my parents,” he said, almost as if offering the information in exchange. And then shrugged when Lan Wangji looked at him, waiting. “They were… people who went places. They died. I was very small then! Sect Leader Jiang found me a few years after.”

Found. As if he had been lost until then. Had anyone cared for him? To Lan Wangji’s knowledge, there had been little in the way of support for orphans, especially if he was correct in understanding “people who went places” to mean that Wei Wuxian’s parents had been itinerants of some sort, who thus would not have had relatives nearby and were likely considered suspect by nature.

He should perhaps ask for more details; if Wei Wuxian had been homeless for a time, that was likely relevant to his medical history. And Lan Wangji was curious as to how Wei Wuxian had then become part of the Jiang clan’s inner circle, assuming he had interpreted the relationship with Jiang Cheng correctly.

Instead, he made a mental note to pursue those questions later, and admitted in turn, “I was always interested in the stories about cultivators. Although even as a child I knew – I believed I knew,” he corrected, “that they could not be true.”

Wei Wuxian gave him an odd look at that, a combination of startled and intrigued – but before he could say anything, Lan Xichen laughed.

“You didn’t mention that you liked to pretend to be a cultivator,” Lan Wangji’s brother said, standing in the doorway.

Lan Wangji glared at him, suddenly glad that he hadn’t pursued the question of Wei Wuxian’s childhood; that was far too personal a topic to have in the presence of a nosy eavesdropper who apparently had no compunctions against disclosing non-relevant details.

And Wei Wuxian’s face immediately lit with a mischievous grin. “Oh?” he prompted, radiating false innocence.

Lan Wangji stepped up the force of his glare a notch.

Unfortunately, his brother had long since developed an immunity to Lan Wangji’s best death glares. “Oh yes,” he said, a sly glint to his eye that said he was perfectly aware that Lan Wangji was willing him to shush and cheerfully ignoring it. “I believe he even insisted on having a proper cultivator’s name. Lan… Zhan, I believe it was?”

Lan Wangji did not particularly subscribe to the idea of a Cain instinct. But sometimes he very much sympathized with the concept.

Wei Wuxian laughed, a bright, warm sound that Lan Wangji couldn’t help but appreciate even in the depths of his fuming embarrassment. “Lan Zhan?” he echoed, sketching the character for clear in the air, and grinned. “That is a good name! It… fits? Seems correct?”

“Suits,” Lan Wangji corrected, careful to keep his face stone-still and not giving away how much he was squirming on the inside. He’d been going through a particularly recalcitrant phase at the time, exacerbated by classmates who had found much enjoyment making fun of his “stodgy, old-fashioned” given name. His mother had laughed and used the alternative name cheerfully, but his uncle had been adamantly against the whole business.

He didn’t even remember how his father had reacted.

Regardless, he had given it up after their parents were gone. He did not appreciate Lan Xichen bringing that childhood foolishness up again now!

Lan Xichen chuckled at his flat stare, but this time, finally, he actually took the hint. “Now, I believe I offered you a tour of the collections. So if you will follow me…”

He turned and headed for the door leading to the back offices and the working space of the museum, Wen Yuan following eagerly behind. Wei Wuxian, however, hung back slightly, matching Lan Wangji’s calmer pace.

“So… Lan Zhan!”

Forgetting himself for a moment, Lan Wangji glared. He was going to regret Wei Wuxian learning about that old folly, he knew it.

Wei Wuxian simply grinned at him. “Lan Zhan wanted to be a cultivator?”

“I was a child,” he said stiffly, desperately hoping that would be the end of it but knowing better.

“Do you still want?”

…What?

Wei Wuxian glanced ahead, to where Lan Xichen was entering the pass code on the collections archive door, and then reached into the pocket of his long jacket and pulled out a sheaf of paper.

A sheaf of paper that shouldn’t have fit in said pocket without being obtrusively obvious, but Lan Wangji was too distracted by the characters inked on the page to care.

Fundamentals of Cultivating a Golden Core.

Stunned, he slowly thumbed through the pages. The text was written in Middle Chinese, he noted – not surprising, given the complexity of the subject matter, far beyond Wei Wuxian’s current, if improving, grasp of the modern language. But it was also interspersed with detailed illustrations, some in the classical style but others clearly inspired by the diagrams and blueprints Wei Wuxian had seen in his books.

It was obviously incomplete, but the sheer amount of information, the care that had been put into it…! Lan Wangji had been aware that Wei Wuxian had been working on something during the quiet lulls in the day, but he’d never imagined this.

Wei Wuxian grinned and shrugged at Lan Wangji’s stare. “I was… leading disciple? First? Training students was my responsibility. I know how to teach.” He tapped the papers with a finger briskly. “But explaining is difficult in one language!” Meeting Lan Wangji’s eyes, he raised his eyebrows pointedly.

Lan Wangji hesitated. “You should speak to Wen Qing,” he said slowly, feeling almost numb. Wei Wuxian couldn’t possibly be offering what he seemed to be. Could he? “She is Wen Yuan’s guardian, and a doctor.”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “I will!” he agreed brightly, and then fixed Lan Wangji with an expectant look. “But do you want?”

Oh. He was.

“…Am I not too old?” he asked. Because wasn’t that a repeated theme in the stories – the importance of starting before it was too late?

Wei Wuxian snorted. “Which of us is the cultivator?” he demanded.

For a moment, Lan Wangji froze. Breathless.

Then Wei Wuxian grinned again and skipped ahead to join Lan Xichen as the door opened. Mind still reeling, Lan Wangji numbly followed them the collections area.

Wen Yuan had to bite down a shiver of anticipation as they walked into the first room of the collections. He loved literature and history; visiting the archives to study ancient documents was an incredible experience. But something about the uncompromising solidity of physical artifacts made history seem viscerally real, like an actual tangible presence in the room with him.

Documents were amazing. There was so much information in them! But they were words. People did all sorts of things with words. Words were for things you wanted to say. In the end, people could say – or write – whatever they wanted. But physical artifacts were the record of things that people did.

Of course, he was also shivering because the collections area was cold. Which he knew was intentional, to protect and preserve the artifacts stored there. But somehow, between the dark, heavy stone walls of the original building and the looming bulk of the state-of-the-art moving shelves pressing close on either side of the aisle and the low, dim lighting meant to protect easily damaged fabrics and paper and paints… the back rooms always felt colder than the actual setting on the thermostat. He loved visiting the collections, but he usually tried not to stay for very long.

And, of course, like the overexcited idiot he was, he’d forgotten to bring a jacket. Oops.

Wei Wuxian seemed untroubled by the chill – although he did have a jacket, at least – but he made a thoughtful sound as he walked in behind them, obviously making note of the changed atmosphere as he looked around.

Lan Xichen started to walk down the aisle, then hesitated and looked at Lan Wangji, who had followed behind Wei Wuxian. “Have you talked to him about the contents of the collections? Many of these artifacts were found in graves – I don’t want to show him something he would consider offensive.”

Wen Yuan blinked. That was a weird question to ask – especially when Wei Wuxian was standing right there!

But the man just chuckled, clearly unoffended. “If the things are still there in old graves, then to take them is not a problem,” he said lightly, peering down an open space in the shelves at a row of funerary vessels. “It is new graves that can be…” He looked at Wen Yuan. “What was your word? Tetchy?”

Wen Yuan laughed, only barely managing to keep his volume appropriate. He’d been trying to describe his friends to Wei Wuxian after he had asked about the “ghost voices” (and Wen Yuan knew Wei Wuxian was deliberately pulling his leg by saying it like that, and yet he still fell for it every single time!), and he hadn’t been able to come up with any better way to explain Jin Ling and his whole… Jin Ling-ness.

Lan Xichen looked nonplussed for a minute, which… oh. Of course. He hadn’t expected Wei Wuxian to understand him. Which was fair; Wen Yuan was pretty sure that graves and artifacts and offend were probably not usually on the list of the top five hundred words someone just learning a new language would know. But they actually had spent a while talking about the museum before they’d come, and a little about archaeology in general, and… well, suffice to say that the man’s vocabulary was kind of a weird mix.

Lan Xichen recovered smoothly, though, and smiled at Wei Wuxian. “I’m glad to know it’s not a concern, then,” he said. Maybe a little patronizingly, but then again, he probably thought he was just humoring a quaint ancient superstition. Wen Yuan knew that details about cultivation were some of the things that Lan Wangji had decided to record but not disseminate until Wei Wuxian was in a position to decide for himself what he wanted to share publicly.

Although… “Was that a problem? Tetchy new graves, I mean?” he asked.

Wei Wuxian tapped his cheek. “Hm! Generally not, if the grave was… right? Correct? …to begin with.” He smiled crookedly.

Um. Wen Yuan was not stupid, and he knew his history. Wei Wuxian had lived in the sixth century. Warring would-be dynasties, family feuds, mass executions, plagues, famine… he could fill in the blanks just fine.

Wei Wuxian gestured to the shelves they were walking past. “So… if you worry about offending, why do you take things from graves?” he asked curiously. “To study the past, it is a strange way to do things.”

“It is not just graves,” Lan Wangji corrected him. “The goal is to find things that people used and understand them. Written records tell only the stories of the writers.”

Wen Yuan carefully did not laugh at Wei Wuxian’s wryly quirked eyebrow. For someone who didn’t know the phrase “ya think?”, that was a very eloquent nonverbal version of it!

Lan Wangji didn’t laugh, but Wen Yuan could tell that he was equally amused. “Material things give us information about the part of the world that those who wrote did not consider important. The lives of ordinary people.”

There was something measuring, thoughtful, about the way that Wei Wuxian looked at him at that. “Ordinary people. Farmers? People of towns? Merchants? You want to know about them, and not gentry?”

Wen Yuan had to smile ruefully at that. He couldn’t blame Wei Wuxian for being surprised. The simple fact that he knew the word for gentry and not townspeople or peasants said a lot about the sort of things they’d mostly talked about, didn’t it? It hadn’t been an intentional blind spot, exactly; it was just that they’d been trying to go over history… and history tended to be shaped and written by people with status.

“The gentry,” Lan Wangji said, echoing Wen Yuan’s thoughts with the dust-dry expressionlessness that Wen Yuan had taken over a year to realize was the professor’s version of sarcasm, “have already told us plenty.”

Already familiar with Lan Wangji’s sense of humor, Wei Wuxian snickered. “They do that,” he said, with an odd wry quirk to his smile that suggested he could come up with a whole list of examples from personal experience.

Lan Wangji looked at the shelves. “The vast majority of people never left written records. That does not make their lives less important.”

Wei Wuxian just chuckled, shaking his head. “There are not many who… will have? Would have? …agreed,” he said wryly, but there was something softer, warmer, in his smile when he looked at Lan Wangji.

Wen Yuan noted that expression, and the quiet satisfaction in Lan Wangji’s eyes, and mentally crossed his fingers.

Lan Xichen waited a moment, but after a moment, when it was clear that Lan Wangji was finished, he cleared his throat and smiled when Wei Wuxian turned attentively to him. “We do have many items from archaeological sites here, yes. But Cloud Recesses has a long history of preserving artifacts. When the original temple was founded, monks and supporters brought many items to keep here…” He paused. Blinked. “Although I suppose,” he added slowly, “if it’s really true that Cloud Recesses as an institution existed in your time, some of those original collections probably pre-dated its establishment as a temple…”

Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows rose at that, and for a moment, his eyes flickered around the room, looking at… the corners? The ceiling? “That would be… interesting,” he said.

And… oh, wow. It would, wouldn’t it? Because that would mean some of those original artifacts dated back to when the Gusu Lan were in charge, and they’d been cultivators.

Um. Wait. Weren’t a lot of things given to temples for exorcism? Only, if there weren’t any cultivators around after a while…

While Lan Xichen had been talking, Lan Wangji had moved ahead of them, checking the identification numbers as he went before coming to a stop in front of a shelf that had already been rolled open. “Brother?”

Lan Xichen chuckled. “Ah yes! I thought you might want to show him that, so I checked. It’s in the conservation lab; a visiting researcher asked to look at it. We can go look at it now, if you like? I imagine that would be more interesting than just…” He waved a hand at the densely packed shelves.

Curious, Wen Yuan craned his neck to peer around the corner of the shelving unit. The minute his eye landed on the identification card left as a placeholder on the empty space on the shelf, he let out an undignified squeak of excitement and didn’t even care. “We get to look at the compass?” he blurted, holding back the urge to bounce by sheer will alone.

Lan Wangji gave him a level look that somehow managed to be chiding and tolerantly amused at the same time. “The compass was not invented until the Song,” he said, following Lan Xichen as he started towards the door leading to the conservatory areas.

Wen Yuan folded his hands in front of him, deliberately projecting scholarly dignity and not grinning. “It’s marked with the cardinal directions. It has a needle designed to move freely. What else would it be?”

Lan Wangji did not blink. “It was likely intended to serve a ritual or divinatory purpose,” he said calmly, not so much as a twitch to betray that he was perfectly aware of the running joke that ritual stood for we have no idea.

“It is one of the oldest of the artifacts,” Lan Xichen noted. “Perhaps Wei Wuxian can provide some insight into its origins?”

Oh, wow. That would be—

Wen Yuan turned to Wei Wuxian eagerly… and then flushed with embarrassment when the man simply blinked and then raised an eyebrow with a crooked smile. Right. He’d been doing so well that Wen Yuan sometimes forgot that modern Mandarin was a foreign language to Wei Wuxian. Generally he could manage basic conversation with just a little stumbling, which frankly was incredible progress, but if he lost the thread of the conversation it was hard for him to pick it back up, especially if he didn’t have any context to rely on. Normally it wasn’t a problem because it was the three of them talking together – but Wen Yuan had gotten distracted and forgotten that Wei Wuxian wouldn’t even know words like compass or conservation.

Chagrined, Wen Yuan opened his mouth to apologize for leaving him out like that, but before he could speak, Wei Wuxian grinned and waved a hand. “There is an argument?” he asked, showing that he had at least followed the general gist of the conversation.

Wen Yuan hesitated. “Um… sort of? It’s just, people found something really cool in the old collection. But no one knows what it is, so…”

Wei Wuxian snorted, openly amused. “So there is an argument,” he said knowingly. “And everyone who has a guess, believes that they know, and everyone else is so wrong. Correct?”

Lan Xichen laughed as he opened the door to the conservation lab. “I must admit, that is an accurate description,” he said with a smile.

Wen Yuan huffed, but he did have to agree. When it came to the Suzhou Compass – and that was literally what it was called in the literature, it wasn’t just him! – he really understood Director Lan’s grumbling about the limitations of unique finds. There was no historic context except that it had been stored in the vault of the original monastery, there were no other items to compare it to, and so literally any likely story that people could dream up could be touted as the Real and Proper interpretation and no one could prove otherwise.

Except. The minute Wei Wuxian’s eyes landed on the palm-sized disc of metal with its strange engravings, he choked, actually grabbing Lan Wangji’s shoulder to stabilize himself through a brief coughing fit. “Why is that here?” he demanded.

“You know what it is?” Wen Yuan blurted. Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen were both wide-eyed.

Wei Wuxian huffed a laugh and straightened. “Ah… yes,” he said, sounding oddly amused.

Then he stepped forward and picked the compass up.

Lan Xichen stiffened. “Now, see here,” he said sternly, as Wen Yuan mentally slapped himself. Of course, they hadn’t been planning on going into the collections, they’d only warned Wei Wuxian about not touching the cases and the things on display…!

Ignoring them, Wei Wuxian twisted his hands, and the back of the disc came off, oh no—

Then he turned it to show the underside of the case. And the familiar characters inscribed as a maker’s mark.

“I do know it,” he said wryly.

Wen Yuan’s eyes were bugging out and he let them. Because.

“You made it?” he squeaked.

Wei Wuxian smiled. “I did! I gave this to Lan Yi, after the war.” He tilted his head, studying the compass in his hands with an odd, complicated sort of smile. Which… well, yeah.

“Would you like it back?” Lan Wangji asked quietly.

Lan Xichen spluttered. “Wangji! That is part of the core collection! We can’t just give it away!” He looked at Wei Wuxian, openly flustered. “I do understand that it once belonged to you…”

Wei Wuxian laughed, clicking the cover back into place with an easy, practiced motion and setting it back onto the table. “I gave it as a gift!” he corrected cheerfully. “It belonged to Lan Yi. Now it belongs to you.” He looked at the compass, pursing his lips for a moment, and then added ruefully, “And it was… hm. A first trying? It was new. An invention!” He grinned and winked at Wen Yuan – probably because he’d learned that word from the book of great inventions – and then shrugged. “The… thinking?... was not finished yet.”

“It was a prototype?” Lan Xichen asked.

“That’s… a thing that you make when you have an idea, but you aren’t sure how to make it really work yet,” Wen Yuan explained when Wei Wuxian glanced at him. “So you make just one to see if it works and to figure out if you can do it better.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, snapping his fingers. “That! Yes, exactly.” He smiled ruefully. “I wanted to finish it, but…” A wry gesture indicated Wei Wuxian himself, the lab, and the whole frozen for fifteen hundred years mess.

Ouch. Although that did explain why no one had found any other examples. “So… what is it for?” Wen Yuan asked, almost vibrating with anticipation. Because people had been arguing over the compass for fifty years. And here was the person who’d made it in the first place!

And Wei Wuxian was a cultivator. Did that mean the compass was a cultivation tool?

Wei Wuxian tapped his chin, humming thoughtfully. “It is… to find,” he said after a moment. Then he reached out and held his hand over the compass.

The engraved characters on the metal disc shimmered. Then three of them glowed red, and the needle – the magnetically inert needle that never responded to anything and seemed to serve no practical purpose – suddenly snapped around to point unwaveringly at one wall.

Lan Xichen made a strangled sort of sound, which… come to think of it, he’d never seen Wei Wuxian actually do anything openly, well, supernatural. He’d caught the bullet, but it had happened so fast – and then for the sword incident, Wei Wuxian hadn’t actually been present. Lan Xichen hadn’t actually seen Wei Wuxian standing on a flying sword, or… well, anything.

Mostly, though, Wen Yuan was busy gaping, because… “It moved!”

Wei Wuxian was looking at the compass, brow furrowed. “It did,” he said thoughtfully. “That was…” He looked at the wall the needle was pointing at, lips pursed. “What is that way?”

Wen Yuan hesitated, mind going blank. He felt like he should know the answer to that, but he was having trouble switching his spatial image of the collections from three-dimensional hallways and rooms to a bird’s eye view of the layout…

Lan Xichen stepped over to the door and looked at the fire escape map posted there. “I believe that would be the oracle bone collection,” he said.

Lan Wangji looked at Wei Wuxian, who was frowning at the compass again. “What does it find?”

“I called it a fēng xié pán. It finds… energy,” Wei Wuxian answered, and then, more ominously, “Energy that is dangerous.” He eyed Lan Xichen. “Oracle bone?”

“Bones used as divination tools – used to ask questions about the future,” Lan Wangji said. “You might be familiar with them as lóng gǔ.”

Wei Wuxian blanched.

“Long gu,” he repeated slowly. “You have collected long gu.” He drew in a slow breath and seemed to brace himself. “Did you make a ward?”

Um. That didn’t sound good.

Wei Wuxian looked at their faces and then nodded sharply, as if their expressions were an answer in themselves. “Show me,” he said briskly, turning away from the table. Grey eyes were sharp and serious, and Wen Yuan swallowed a gulp; if Wei Wuxian had looked like that after Jin Zixun tried to take his things, then no wonder Nie Mingjue had pushed so hard to come up with a solution stat!

“Ah… What about…?” Lan Xichen waved a hand at the compass, the characters still glowing an eerie red.

Wei Wuxian glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. “It will stop soon,” he said, with a wry smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That was a reason why the thinking was not finished. It was not useful if only a cultivator could use it!”

He looked at Lan Wangji, who nodded silently and then opening the door, beckoning them with a small gesture to follow.

Wen Yuan hurried after the two; he wasn’t quite sure what was going on, but he knew he didn’t want to miss it! Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lan Xichen shaking his head with a somewhat perplexed expression, but he followed gamely in their wake as Lan Wangji led them down the hallway to the next door, and stepped forward to unlock it without being asked.

Wen Yuan had to admit, the rows of heavy, shallow-shelved metal cabinets that lined walls from floor to ceiling did give the room an oppressive air. His overactive imagination wanted to call it stifling, even though if anything it was even colder than the rest of the archives…

Wei Wuxian’s hand snapped out, grabbing Lan Wangji’s wrist before he could reach for the handle of the nearest cabinet. “Do not,” he said firmly.

“Surely that’s not necessary?” Lan Xichen objected – although his voice wasn’t certain at all. “The collection has been here for decades, we would have noticed by now if there were something… problematic about it.”

Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow. Then he pursed his lips and whistled, low and sharp and—

Ohshitwhatisthat?!

Something black and grasping and terrible boiled out of the cabinets, a dark cloud that choked the room – even as Wen Yuan’s eyes swore there wasn’t anything there and the room was just as bright and as empty as it had been only a second ago. Wen Yuan stumbled back an unintentional step completely by reflex. Then Lan Wangji was sweeping him back behind them, even as the professor retreated a few careful steps so that he was standing at Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, out of the way in case the cultivator needed to act quickly but far enough forward to shield Wen Yuan and Lan Xichen.

“Yuàn qi,” Wei Wuxian said, sounding terrifyingly nonchalant as he tilted his head and studied the mass of not-there darkness. “It is… hm. Energy that could not move and became… not correct. The bones used qi, to… predict? …what was asked. Then the ones who used them could not… Hm. Wash? …the qi. So it was put in the ground.”

The invisible dark roiled, seeming to reach out towards them. Wei Wuxian eyed it and whistled again, higher in pitch this time, and the dark recoiled as if physically shoved back.

Chángxiào, Wen Yuan thought distantly. He’d read a bit about transcendental whistling, once. Apparently the part about it controlling the dead was at least kind of true.

And if he was thinking about that in a desperate effort to not panic, he didn’t think anyone could blame him!

Lan Wangji exhaled slowly. “So when they were gathered together…”

Wei Wuxian huffed. “One or two? That is not a large danger. But put together? They…” He hesitated, frowning, and made a sort of shaking motion with his extended hand. “They are… like two guqin together. You play the string of one. The other one moves.”

Wait. Not shaking. Vibrating. “They resonate,” Wen Yuan supplied, and gulped. “So, the oracle bones… make each other stronger?”

Wei Wuxian smiled crookedly. “When many people are angry together, they do not become less angry.”

Um. Yeah. And also yikes, because he’d seen the oracle bone collection and there were a lot more than just one or two!

Lan Wangji studied the energy in the room, face as calm as ever and only a subtle tightness around his eyes to betray his own reaction. “You said that the bones could not be cleansed. But you controlled it just now.”

Wei Wuxian grinned brightly and tapped the side of his nose. “Ah. Well! Cultivation is like science. People learn new things!”

He studied the energy a moment longer, head cocked to the side as if listening for something very faint. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, oddly long and weirdly thick, like fancy handmade stuff—

Talisman paper. That’s actual talisman paper, he must have had some with him when he froze…

Holding the paper against the frame of the door, Wei Wuxian pulled out something that looked almost like a rust-red piece of chalk – um, wait, is that cinnabar? – and quickly… drew? wrote?… a complex set of symbols and lines, something that made the ward talisman he’d shown Wen Yuan look simple—

Then, turning to face the room again, Wei Wuxian held up a hand, palm flat, and pushed.

The talisman stiffened, then flew forward to smack down in the center of the work table in the middle of the room like an iron filing to a magnet. For just a moment, it flashed red, and then…

It was almost like watching a drop of ink falling into water, except in reverse. Or maybe a better analogy would be vapor from a fog machine being sucked away by vents. The dark energy pulled back from the talisman, seeming to fold in on itself and back into the cabinets.

Wen Yuan released a very wobbly exhale, only at that moment realizing that he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

Then Wei Wuxian turned around, flapping his hands playfully at them. “So!” he said brightly, chivvying them out of the room. “That is done! But it is better to not stay.” Closing the door behind them, he pulled out another talisman – this one pre-made, apparently – and placed it on the door, where it stuck despite the lack of any sort of adhesive.

Then he looked at Wen Yuan and grinned. “Warmer?”

“…Yes!” Wen Yuan said, startled. He’d been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed – which, seriously, so justified – but the moment that not-there dark had pulled back, the extra chill in the archives had as well. Now… well, it was definitely still chilly, but at least he wasn’t actually on the verge of shivering anymore.

Wei Wuxian nodded. “That is good! A cold that is not right – that means yuan qi is taking your qi. That is not good!”

Erk. Well, that was terrifying, considering that the archives had always felt kind of creepily cold to him, if never quite this bad before.

Lan Xichen swallowed. “I… didn’t notice it,” he said slowly. Looking at him, Wen Yuan felt a surge of sympathy. The man was starkly pale, the line of his mouth unsteady and his eyes distinctly wild even as he was obviously trying to remain calm. At least Wen Yuan had gotten a few days of watching Wei Wuxian doing cool stuff before all of this!

Wei Wuxian nodded. “Wen Yuan is… new? Not big?” he started, and then had the nerve to smirk when Wen Yuan made a noise in protest – he was not short, he just wasn’t done growing! – before turning back to Lan Xichen. “His jīngmài, his qi paths – they are more open. They feel more.”

“Is he hurt?” Lan Wangji asked, standing close by Wen Yuan’s shoulder as he gulped.

“Hmmm.” Wei Wuxian made a grabby motion at Wen Yuan’s left arm. When Wen Yuan obligingly extended it, Wei Wuxian turned his hand over and then held two fingers just over the pulse point of the wrist, humming thoughtfully.

Then he grinned, reaching out to tap Wen Yuan on the nose. “Sleeping will be good! But you are not big, you bounce!”

“What of adults?” Lan Wangji asked, and Wen Yuan bit back his spluttering to listen.

Wei Wuxian hummed thoughtfully, swaying his whole upper body back and forth in a nonverbal sort of “maybe.” “If not much, and not… Mmm. Many times fast? That is not bad. But if more…” He grimaced.

“I don’t understand,” Lan Xichen said weakly. “There’s never been a problem…”

Wei Wuxian chuckled and patted the wall. “This place, there are old wards! They keep the yuan qi from leaving. But it can come.” He looked at the talisman on the door. “That will help. But it is not a fixing. And… cleansing?” He glanced at Lan Wangji, then continued when a nod confirmed that he had used the term correctly. “I can do that. But it will take preparing.”

“And in the meantime,” Lan Wangji said, with a grim edge, “we should investigate what the long-term outcomes for the collection’s curators has been in the past decades.”

LEXICON

Lóng gǔ (龍骨): “dragon bones,” which is what oracle bones were called in traditional medicine.

Fēng xié pán (风邪盘): the Compass of Ill Winds/Compass of Evil.

Yuàn qì (怨气): resentful energy. I think. It took some digging to find! As an aside, for Japanese anime fans, the character for yuan is the same as the on in onryou aka angry ghosts; in Japanese it tends to mean wrath. I found that interesting, although I’d already suspected as much.

Jīngmài (经脉): qi meridians.

Chángxiào (長嘯): typically translated “transcendental whistling” – see the main notes for details!

NOTES

As part of my research for this fic (and in the name of being a geek), I managed to grab a used copy of Chinese Medicine and Healing: An Illustrated History by T.J. Hinrichs and Linda L. Barnes (which, by the by, is also a great look at some of the folkloric concepts underlying Chinese ideas of magic and the supernatural, since that tends to deal with healing). And right in the first pages was a discussion of oracle bones being used to diagnose and treat illnesses… and a mention that the used bones and shells were then buried, because the energy they absorbed in the process made them dangerous.

Me: “Oh man, that would be a perfect problem for cultivators…”

And then I came up with Wei Wuxian’s original compass being stashed away in the Lan vaults, and my plotbunnies tapped me on shoulder and said, “Hey, if the university is big on history and archaeology, they’d probably have a stash of oracle bones…”

Fun aside, one of my major stumbling blocks that I hit especially hard in this chapter was how to clarify cultivation as it appears in xianxia – as what Western culture would classify as a magical system – versus cultivation as the continuous improvement of body and personal character as practiced historically and to this day in Chinese (and East Asian more generally) culture. I thought about hunting the actual Chinese term down and using that as a way to differentiate, but ultimately I opted against that, because the whole point is that they’re not actually supposed to be separate, so much as the form seen in xianxia is the historic version of cultivation taken to the level of legends and even mythology. And that seemed much more fun to play with. But it did mean I spent a while coming up with ways to refer to cultivation as seen in MDZS and real-world practices!

(It also doesn’t help that a lot of the philosophical and religious customs and practices that form the underpinnings of fantasy cultivation were generally just getting established in the disunified/Northern and Southern Dynasties period! So I’m definitely playing fast and loose with history in this…)

Speaking of. Transcendental whistling was an actual Daoist practice – in fact, whistling was considered a musical instrument of sorts, with whistlers included in orchestras! And yes, one of the powers attributed to it was raising and controlling the dead. Kind of cool to see where that aspect of Wei Wuxian’s guidao came from!

Also, huzzah, I finally found a way to establish Lan Zhan as a name! Granted, I made it harder for myself because I wanted to stick with courtesy names no longer being part of the culture, but I also wanted to keep the whole Wei Ying/Lan Zhan naming thing. So Lan Wangji had to be his regular name, and thus Lan Zhan needed a separate origin. (There will be no Hanguang-jun title. The scale of the story is too small for that.)

When I wrote the scene with Lan Xichen, I was thinking about the specific circumstances of this fic, because yes – after spending so much time thinking of “Yiling Laozu” as an inanimate object (a project like the one I posit here would have been months and even years in planning before they actually started), there would be some severe cognitive dissonance in meeting an active man who has a personality and opinions and has to be interacted with, especially since Lan Xichen has been at a remove the entire time (and interacting extensively with people who also think of Yiling Laozu rather than Wei Wuxian, for various reasons). But after writing it, it did occur to me that “Lan Xichen doesn’t quite register Wei Wuxian as a person” actually fits canon pretty well – and would explain some of Lan Xichen’s behavior.

After all, they only interacted directly twice in canon before Wei Wuxian’s death, both relatively superficial encounters during the Cloud Recesses arc. He didn’t know Wei Wuxian, and so he didn’t feel any need to question the rumors. Especially when “Wei Wuxian as bad guy” was so useful for the people who were more important (more emotionally “real”) to him. I’m not saying this was conscious in any way – Lan Xichen would never deliberately do that. It was just… easy to go along and only make cursory noises of concern. Wei Wuxian simply didn’t matter enough to look deeper.

(And then he discovers that, oops, it turns out that his brother cares very much about Wei Wuxian, and Lan Xichen does not take it well at all.)

Actually, I rather like the way withthewindinherfootsteps summed up Lan Xichen at one point: he is not a bad person. But he is deeply unwilling to go outside his comfort zone. So to me… he wants to be good, but because he’s not willing to do the hard confrontations that good demands, he tends to sideslip into nice. Nice, mind, is not a bad thing… but it’s a superficial thing.

The thing is… I actually think this aspect of Lan Xichen – that he genuinely tries to be good, but due to bias and classism and personal partiality tends to fail to follow through – is actually really important to the themes of the novel. It’s one thing to confront the banality of evil in the form of characters like Sect Leader Yao; we all know about pretentious blowhards who are none-too-bright! But Lan Xichen is an uncomfortable reminder that intelligent, nice people who genuinely want to do good are just as susceptible.

Fun aside, that wall of rules is part of why I see Cloud Recesses as modeled on (actually close to satirizing) a Buddhist monastery (along with, you know, the Lan An backstory, the segregation of the sexes, the overall ascetic aesthetic). There’s a long tradition of extensive rules dictating every aspect of a monk’s life (and not restricted to Buddhism; see the Rule of Saint Benedict), and during the disunified period in China, there was a positive obsession with importing The Right Rules from India. Given Lan Yi’s story, though, I can definitely see her being less than enthused.

Meanwhile, Confucius – Master Kong – had opinions about trying to dictate moral conduct using rules and punishments. The Lan wall of rules would have given him a conniption…

Also, I can’t help finding it ironic that the Lan setup would work far better in a more genre-typical cultivation sect, where membership – like in actual monasteries – is entirely voluntary. That sort of society gets a lot more problematic when you don’t have a self-selected population!

(As an aside: my headcanon is that the wall of rules was destroyed by a combination of erosion, neglect, and damage inflicted during one of the many, many purges enacted on Buddhists at various points in Chinese history. The Doylist explanation, however, is that the wall of rules would have given the “wait, this is Cloud Recesses” game away far too easily, and my plot bunnies had their hearts set on that Cold Springs scene. So the wall had to go!)

The Gongche system of musical notation was indeed only created in the Tang period, but as I mentioned previously: since the plot bunnies were set on the idea of Lan Wangji raising Wei Wuxian’s suspicions by playing Wangxian (in a deliberate echo of canon), I needed to bend things so that there was in fact a written notation system prior to that. (And a bit of artistic license on top of that; since the Gongche system was more like the modern fake book, giving chords rather than melodies, technically there should have been no way for Lan Wangji to accurately reproduce the song!)

Chapter Text

“In the long term? Any curator who spent at least five years running that collection has only lived fifteen years beyond their date of hire. At best.”

Wen Qing was proud, in a distant sort of way, that her words came out brisk and professional – nothing to betray the cold knot of horror that had been building in her gut ever since the first few responses to the inquiries she’d made over the past week had started to come trickling in.

Lan Xichen was white-faced as he slowly paged through the report she’d handed out a moment ago, summarizing her findings. He’d offered to absent himself from the meeting, per their agreement on PR management. Wen Qing had insisted on his presence. This was not only a matter of the Yiling Laozu project anymore; this was an environmental hazard that had been killing people for decades – centuries! – and no one had noticed.

Horror, Wen Qing thought, was not nearly strong enough a word.

Lan Qiren closed the report and rested his clasped hands on it. His knuckles were tight and his lips almost bloodless, but otherwise the man projected an admirable appearance of calm. “What is the direct cause of the mortality rate?”

“That’s the scary part,” Wen Qing said bluntly. “There is no single cause of death. Nor can I identify anything that suggests a common underlying cause. Some died of illness, some from misadventure, two suicides… one person was hit by a bus!” She shook her head. “Looking at these statistics as a physician, I would tell you that there’s nothing linking them… except for the fact that there is a clear correlation between mortality rate and the amount of time they spent working in those collections.”

And that would be the part that took the situation from horrifying to terrifying. She was familiar with ailments arising from environmental factors that could manifest in a wide range of health complications, but how did you treat something that seemed to manifest, at its core, as bad luck?

How did you even convince people that it was the problem?

She could see Lan Qiren’s own reluctance, even as he opened his copy of the report to once again review the graphics and statistics she had put together. But one blessing of the situation: if Lan Qiren believed in anything, it was cold, hard data. After a long minute, he closed the report again and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, obviously attempting to stave off a stress headache.

Then he raised his head and straightened his shoulders with a sigh. “Obviously a more general and comprehensive study will need to be done to verify these findings… but I agree, these results are deeply concerning, Doctor Wen. If true, this is a matter of concern for all institutions that currently host archaeological collections.”

She’d been trying not to think about that. The Cloud Recesses archives were relatively small, as such things went. And Wen Qing highly doubted that the oracle bones were the only artifacts that held accumulated “resentful energy.”

She was also trying not to think about how many oracle bones had been ground up as medical treatment over the centuries. Yes, some medicines were also poisons… but sometimes poison was just poison.

“For the time being,” she said, deliberately turning away from those dark thoughts, “we should make the oracle bone collection off-limits, and ask Wei Wuxian if more permanent containment measures are available. In the long term…” She turned to Lan Wangji, who had been sitting quietly by and listening thus far.

“He has indicated that treatment for exposure is possible,” he said. “He would like to consult with you regarding Wen Yuan.”

She nodded briskly; they had already discussed that privately, since her young cousin openly admitted that he was hoping for actual cultivation lessons. She definitely wanted a better grasp on the medical side of cultivation before she gave any blessings on that front.

“He also believes that decontamination of the afflicted artifacts is possible without harming their historic value,” Lan Wangji continued. “However, it will require planning and preparation.”

“More importantly, it means that we will be effectively hiring him as an expert consultant in university matters,” Wen Qing added. “Not to mention that there’s no way we can present our information about this health risk to other institutions without explaining Wei Wuxian. If we’re going to make him an active participant, then Nie Huaisang was right; it’s time that you sat down with him and officially explained why he’s here, Director.”

Lan Qiren pursed his lips, but then nodded and looked at Lan Wangji. “In that case, I shall make myself available tomorrow afternoon. Inform me of your preferred time and place when you have consulted with him.”

Only the slightest of hesitations betrayed Lan Wangji’s surprise before he tilted his head in acceptance. And Wen Qing had to admit, it wasn’t a bad plan. It gave all parties involved a reasonable amount of time to prepare, with minimal risk of stalling or unforeseen delays. And she was fairly sure that Lan Wangji had been coaching Wei Wuxian on etiquette since Nie Huaisang had first brought the suggestion up.

“In the meantime,” Lan Qiren said, turning back to Lan Xichen, “regarding the need for new safety protocols…”

Wen Qing settled back in her chair. There wasn’t much more she could contribute to the conversation at this point, since they currently lacked information regarding degree of exposure or necessary recovery time. Her role, at this point, was to make note of the relevant medical information they lacked, so that she could consult with Wei Wuxian later.

And she would be doing so. Especially regarding treatment. Because this was an ailment that had apparently gone unnoticed for decades, if not centuries, and that was not acceptable. And if doing something about it meant inventing a whole new field of medicine from scratch – or reviving one that had been lost for a thousand years…?

Well. She’d always liked a challenge.

“Wangji!”

Lan Wangji hesitated in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder as Lan Xichen hurried down the hall to catch up with him.

“Sorry,” his brother said with a smile as he joined Lan Wangji. “I just wanted to ask if you had a minute.”

Lan Wangji’s steps slowed for a moment as the door swung closed behind them. Had something come up after he’d left the meeting…?

Lan Xichen chuckled, waving a hand. “It’s nothing urgent!” he said reassuringly. “It’s just that with everything that’s been happening with the project, I feel like we barely see each other anymore! And we didn’t really get to talk back at the museum. I just wanted to see if you had some time to catch up for a bit.”

True. Normally he and his brother would meet at least once a week, to catch up on the projects they were working on and anything else going on in their lives. But between seeing each other regularly with the Yiling Laozu project, and then Wei Wuxian’s unexpected awakening and everything that had happened since, those meetings had fallen by the wayside for a while.

Lan Wangji paused to consider. Part of him itched to return to the Jingshi and begin the preparations for Lan Qiren’s visit; he could not help but be acutely aware of how important it was that Lan Qiren’s introduction to Wei Wuxian go well, for multiple reasons…

But it was still relatively early in the morning. Wei Wuxian was likely to still be asleep, and there was no reason to disturb the routine of the morning. Wen Yuan was aware of the new plans; Lan Wangji had already notified him of the upcoming meeting. He had time.

“A moment,” he said, and pulled out his phone to send a text to Wen Yuan, informing him that Lan Wangji would be returning slightly later than initially planned. Then he pocketed his phone again and nodded to his brother, who beamed as they began walking again.

It was pleasant to simply stroll the paths of the campus in silence together. Unlike many of Lan Wangji’s acquaintance, his brother had never been troubled by his default of silence. Something that he had relied upon probably more than he should have as a child, to his detriment during his years as a student and then as a scholar. He’d vastly underestimated how very social – and political – the academic world truly could be.

He was better at handling such things now. But it was still pleasant to walk with someone who did not mind silence.

Perhaps that was part of what made Wei Wuxian’s company pleasant. For all his cheerful talk, Wei Wuxian never seemed to mind Lan Wangji’s reticence, either.

Still. Lan Xichen had said he wanted to catch up. And… Lan Wangji had been concerned. So, as they followed one of the gracefully winding path, well away from the few students still on campus and about at this hour, he asked, “You are well?”

Lan Xichen sighed. “It does sting a bit,” he admitted. “If only because I know that Nie Huaisang is right… and that I really only have myself to blame. I made a mistake that could have had profound consequences. And it will make things difficult moving forward. A little bruised pride is a small price to pay for mitigating that.” He chuckled. “Besides, I am still involved with the project in a way, since I’m working with Nie Mingjue and Meng Yao on the Su Minshan situation.”

Lan Wangji stiffened. “I thought he had been arrested and handed to the police.”

“Ah.” Lan Xichen hesitated, then sighed. “Well. I suppose I might as well tell you now, Nie Mingjue will give the official report this afternoon. Someone posted bail for him.”

Lan Wangji’s footsteps paused for a moment as he processed that. “…Someone.”

Lan Xichen nodded grimly. “I admit… I thought – I hoped – that we were simply being overly cautious. But an anonymous donor apparently provided the funds for Su Minshan to post bail… and since then, he seems to have vanished.” His cheeks puffed with frustration. “Nie Mingjue and I have been attempting to impress on the police the importance of finding him, but that is proving rather difficult, given that his actions involve someone who does not yet legally exist.”

“He shot at Wen Yuan,” Lan Wangji snapped, forcing the words through gritted teeth and frozen lungs.

Lan Xichen shook his head. “And we have clear video evidence of him doing so… but we cannot release that evidence without also revealing the situation with Wei Wuxian.” He looked at Lan Wangji. “If it’s any comfort, Meng Yao is quite confident that Su Minshan will not speak of the project to anyone. He will not want to be taken for a madman.”

Lan Wangji stared at him flatly, and Lan Xichen winced slightly before sighing.

Because Su Minshan had fired a lethal weapon at a minor. He should not have been eligible for bail. The fact that he had been able to pay and walk at all meant that either someone’s palms had been liberally greased, or a great deal of pressure had been put on the officers. And neither of those were things that Su Minshan, a mediocre security guard with no connections, could do on his own.

Which meant someone else had intervened. Someone with money, power or influence. More likely, someone with all three, given that they tended to come as a set.

And there were only so many reasons why Su Minshan would be of interest to such a person.

Seething, Lan Wangji was caught completely off guard when Lan Xichen suddenly laughed.

At Lan Wangji’s blank stare, Lan Xichen quickly schooled his face back to solemnity. “I’m sorry,” he said, the corners of his mouth still twitching suspiciously. “I know it’s a very serious situation. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so protective of someone since Wen Yuan was small and getting picked on by those bullies. I think meeting Wei Wuxian has been good for you.”

Lan Wangji did not stiffen, even as the back of his neck tensed. Because no. Absolutely not. He was not going to have this conversation with his nosy and far too often inclined to meddle brother. “I am responsible for his well-being,” he said shortly.

Lan Xichen smiled knowingly. “So responsibility is why you two were so close at the museum? It’s not like you to discuss childhood dreams out of responsibility.”

Lan Wangji narrowed his eyes, glowering. So Xichen had eavesdropped on that conversation. Which… wasn’t that unreasonable, if he was inclined to be charitable. To Lan Xichen, Wei Wuxian was an enigma. An impossibility. An existence that upended what had been a comfortable and predictable rhythm. Of course he would want to watch the man.

Lan Wangji was not inclined to be charitable. That had been a private conversation!

And his brother just laughed indulgently at his irritation, patting him on the shoulder. “Really, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about!” he said cheerfully. “Even I can recognize that he’s a very attractive man! And he does seem quite fond of you. Perhaps you should…”

That… actually stung. “Brother. Stop.”

Lan Xichen started to laugh again – then hesitated, giving Lan Wangji a searching look. “Oh,” he murmured, hesitant in a way he rarely was between the two of them. “You’re… angry?”

He was. On multiple levels. Lan Wangji allowed himself a moment to breathe deeply, steadying himself. This was hardly the first time his brother had pried into his relationships, or more precisely his lack thereof. He did not like such prying, but he had learned to tolerate it to a degree. But in this case… “You are doing it again.”

Lan Xichen’s brows furrowed. “I understand that you prefer not to talk about relationships, but…”

“Not that.” Not that that was not also true, but… “Brother. For two weeks, I was the only person Wei Wuxian interacted with. As things stand, I am still his primary source of human contact, and he is dependent on me for anything beyond the most basic communication, particularly when it comes to any sort of information about the modern world.”

Not to mention basic necessities like food, clothing and shelter.

Lan Wangji fixed his brother with a hard stare. “It would be beyond unethical for me to pursue a relationship with him under the current circumstances. Particularly when I am acting as his advocate in the project.” Specifically to prevent people from exploiting him, no less!

Lan Xichen opened his mouth. “…ah,” he said after a moment, wincing with chagrin. “You’re right, of course. I hadn’t really thought about it in those terms.”

No, because once again he’d been thinking of Wei Wuxian as an object, rather than a person with his own thoughts, needs and wishes. But Lan Wangji held those words back; there was no reason to belabor the point further.

Lan Xichen sighed. “I just… want you to be happy. You seemed to be, with him.”

Well. Perhaps he should belabor the point a little. “Then consider that it would not make me happy to enter a relationship that might well be based on Stockholm syndrome,” he said dryly.

He regretted it a little when Lan Xichen winced again, more deeply this time.

Lan Wangji sighed. He knew that it could have been so much worse; he was well aware that Wen Yuan’s friend Mo Xuanyu lived very rightly in terror of his mother’s family learning of his sexuality. Lan Wangji knew he was fortunate; for all their other issues, he had never once been afraid that his family would reject him for his inclinations, despite the very real potential consequences should those inclinations be widely known.

The problem was that his brother… did not quite seem to understand that a physical attraction to men was not the same thing as an active desire for a relationship, or to be dating. This was far from the first time that Lan Xichen had attempted to encourage Lan Wangji in a relationship that he had no intentions of pursuing.

The fact that this time Lan Wangji actually wouldn’t be opposed if not for the circumstances… just made it more frustrating, really. And he was not going to follow that line of thought any further.

…Except that Lan Xichen was apparently not quite ready to let it go. “But in the future, perhaps…?” he suggested hopefully.

Lan Wangji sighed. “Perhaps,” he said reluctantly; clearly he would not get out of this without some concession to his brother’s prying. “But it would only be ethical to explore after Wei Wuxian has had the opportunity to establish a life for himself independent of the project and no longer needs my assistance.”

And he would not be taking opinions from the part of his mind that was attempting to provide suggestions about what such a life might look like. It was not helping.

Lan Xichen sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “We’ll just have to hope that tomorrow’s meeting goes well, I suppose; that is the first step.”

Lan Wangji quickly seized the chance to change the topic. “I have been considering the best way to arrange the meeting. I would appreciate your insight…”

If Wen Yuan was going to be really, totally honest, Lan Qiren intimidated him.

Which was a statement that would completely stun Lan Jingyi, because despite actually being related to Director Lan, Lan Jingyi was terrified of the man. Wen Yuan vividly remembered the time that Lan Qiren had come looking for Lan Wangji when the professor had been showing him and his friends a new exhibit, and Lan Jingyi had spent the rest of the trip clinging to Wen Yuan and complaining about, “one look and my bones froze!” and “you’re so lucky he likes you!”

The worst part was, Lan Qiren did like him, Wen Yuan knew he did… and that just made the director even more intimidating, because his approval came with expectations and Wen Yuan was always worried about whether he’d actually measure up.

So he was perfectly happy to stay seated on his cushion safely out of the way and watch from the sidelines as Lan Wangji poured the tea for himself, Lan Qiren, and Wei Wuxian.

It was… really interesting to see Lan Qiren and Wei Wuxian seated across from each other. Lan Qiren wore pressed slacks and a perfectly buttoned shirt and tie under a light suit jacket; the very image of academic professionalism.

The contrast couldn’t have been more striking between that and the traditional robes Wei Wuxian was wearing. Not his original robes – those were tucked away for safekeeping. But they’d managed to acquire clothes made in the old style, using traditional materials.

Made in the specific style of Wei Wuxian’s clothes, because it turned out that the artist had actually gotten permission to come and study Wei Wuxian when he’d still been frozen in the ice, before the decision to thaw him was made, and there’d been a whole section of the website talking about the artist’s observations and how they’d combined that with historical research and similar clothing styles in art and surviving fragments from tombs to produce the most authentic recreation of Yiling Laozu’s clothing as possible.

It had really been an amazing piece of scholarship. Wen Yuan had been deeply impressed, even if he’d been laughing more than a little hysterically at the thought of how the artist would react if they knew that one of their customers had ordered a set for the actual Yiling Laozu.

He’d worried when Wei Wuxian had changed into those robes after lunch. He did understand the importance of wearing comfortable clothing in a stressful situation, but it would be so easy for Lan Qiren to look at him and see someone from the distant past who of course must be ignorant and uneducated by modern standards—

Watching them now, he realized that Wei Wuxian had actually planned his appearance strategically. He was meeting Lan Qiren as a professional to another professional, each of them an expert in his own field.

Lan Wangji set the teapot aside and settled at the table, all graceful dignity, and Wen Yuan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing as he remembered the way Wei Wuxian had teased the professor about being the junior at a table of old men – after all, Wei Wuxian was a venerable fifteen hundred years old, going on twenty-two!

Wen Yuan was just glad that it was Lan Wangji and not him sitting at that table. They’d spent all of yesterday and this morning going over details of etiquette and expectations about proper behavior and… yikes. He knew that technically it was all stuff that he already knew, but after listening to all that he just knew that he’d have gotten self-conscious and screwed something up!

And that would have been bad, because this was going to be Lan Qiren’s first actual meeting with Wei Wuxian and he knew it was really, really important that Lan Qiren have a good first impression of Wei Wuxian the person. Which wasn’t really fair, because it was Lan Qiren and the Yiling Laozu Project that wanted something from Wei Wuxian, the burden of a good first impression really should have been on him…

But, well, Lan Qiren was the one with the power to influence whether other people would treat Wei Wuxian like a real person or not. So they needed him in Wei Wuxian’s corner. It wasn’t really about “fair.”

Wen Yuan’s lips twitched; he could just imagine how Ouyang Zizhen and Lan Jingyi would react to that idea. Jin Ling would get it, though.

So he stayed off to the side and tried not to fidget as Lan Qiren picked up his cup and sipped the tea with what felt like agonizing slowness.

Then he lowered it again, setting it on the table with a decisive sort of click. “You were discovered eight years ago frozen in a glacier on Mount Dafan in the Daba Mountains,” he said briskly. “At the time, you were thought to be an exceptionally well-preserved corpse. Five years ago, you were brought here to Cloud Recesses for safekeeping and study.”

Safekeeping and study, but not proper burial. That was… Wen Yuan hadn’t really thought about it much, before – and he knew that there was no way they would have been able to bury him, not when just thawing Yiling Laozu had been so controversial. But now he wondered what Wei Wuxian thought about that, especially after what he’d implied about the tetchiness of unburied dead. Not to mention the level of pure disrespect implied.

He really doubted Wei Wuxian had missed that little detail, but he didn’t react at all; just listened, gaze level and steady. The only hint of his thoughts was a tiny, wry quirk of a smile at one corner of his mouth, as if he found Lan Qiren’s brusque bluntness amusing.

“Two years ago, we made the decision to remove you from the ice for closer study, in order to further our knowledge of your time of origin.” For just a second, Lan Qiren paused, lips pursed. “Obviously, our original plan is no longer viable.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head, eyes laughing even as he said, “This one apologizes for the inconvenience of his survival.”

Oh wow. Zing. And Wen Yuan could see the zing hit home in the way Lan Qiren’s expression flashed quickly from annoyance to shock to sudden discomfort – as if it had only just sunk in that grousing about the inconvenience meant that he was complaining about the fact that Wei Wuxian wasn’t dead.

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian had to have planned that. Among other things, Wen Yuan was pretty sure that inconvenience was a new addition to Wei Wuxian’s vocabulary.

Wei Wuxian raised his eyebrows. “So! Now that I am not dead, what do you plan to do?”

“Ah…” Lan Qiren cleared his throat, clearly nonplussed. Now that Wen Yuan thought about it, no one had just come out and asked that, had they? Lots of talk about needing to plan, but not a straightforward what is the plan? “…The goal of the project, and of the university, is to learn more about the past, and our ancestors,” he said after a moment. “You could provide great insight.” He cleared his throat again and straightened his shoulders. “However. I do recognize that you did not volunteer to be part of this project. We value what you can tell us, but you are not obligated to do so in any manner.”

“You are generous,” Wei Wuxian said lightly, and Wen Yuan could not for the life of him tell if the statement was sincere or skeptical. Or maybe a little sarcastic; not obligated was kind of a stretch, given the way things had gone that first week.

Lan Qiren made a dismissive motion with his hand. “As the ones who thawed you out of the ice, the project has an ethical responsibility to help you adjust to the modern era, as well.”

Wei Wuxian studied him, eyes sharp on Lan Qiren’s face. “Oh?” he asked, something knowing in his tone.

Lan Qiren hesitated for a moment, stroking his beard. “The project is… of great interest to many,” he admitted at last.

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian said, and smiled wryly. “And that I am not dead will be even more interesting.” He cocked his head to the side. “Do they know?” he asked, sounding more curious than anything else.

“We have not told anyone yet, no,” Lan Qiren admitted. “We felt it would be best to wait for a time.”

Wei Wuxian hummed, nodding. “How long a time?” he asked.

Lan Qiren hesitated again. Wen Yuan had to wonder – had the director actually thought about that yet? He knew Nie Huaisang had told the project something similar, about having an actual timeline for releasing the news, but… well, he knew from riding herd on his friends’ schoolwork that being told that something needed to be done didn’t always translate to doing it in a timely manner.

Although his brain hurt a bit, associating Lan Qiren with Lan Jingyi’s homework habits.

“There is also the question of what you want,” Lan Wangji said into the pause – although from the glint in Wei Wuxian’s eye as he continued to watch Lan Qiren’s reaction, he’d definitely noticed the lack of a ready response. “You will be the one most affected when the wider world learns about you. You deserve a say in when and how it happens… and what you wish to do moving forward.”

Wei Wuxian looked at Lan Wangji, still with that wry, knowing air, but warmer this time. “Do I know enough to want?” he asked.

Which was… well, ow. But a fair point.

Lan Qiren cleared his throat. “Lan Wangji and Wen Yuan can assist you in that; that is their role right now.” Then he hesitated before adding, with visible reluctance, “And Nie Mingjue’s younger brother has also offered his assistance, as he is more… familiar with certain aspects of modern society. There are… certain things that it would be best that you were familiar with.”

Wei Wuxian looked intrigued by that, and Wen Yuan tried not to laugh. He hadn’t met Nie Huaisang yet, but from what he had heard, the guy was interesting.

Wen Yuan did hope that he’d be able to sit in on the internet lessons, because to be honest, he was kind of looking forward to seeing what Wei Wuxian would do once he was unleashed on social media. He seemed the sort of guy who’d have way too much fun with that.

Wen Yuan was friends with Lan Jingyi, Ouyang Zizhen, and Jin Ling. He might not be the type to initiate chaos, but he was not above being on standby with an earnestly innocent face and alibis ready at hand.

Lan Qiren folded his hands neatly on the table. “On that topic, however, I would like to discuss the problem that you discovered in our collections,” he said seriously. “If the artifacts are endangering the students and staff, then it is imperative that the problem be addressed immediately. In addition, Cloud Recesses is not the only archive of oracle bones. We have a responsibility to inform others of the potential dangers, and of any available methods of mitigation.” He drew in a deep breath. “To my knowledge, you are… perhaps the only person who knows such things. Your assistance would be… greatly appreciated.”

The look Wei Wuxian gave him this time was… different. Sharp. Assessing, somehow. As if something Lan Qiren had said had just… completely gone against whatever Wei Wuxian was expecting.

After a moment, though, he nodded. “There are ways. It will take time. The bones are very old. But I can help you.”

Lan Qiren actually bowed. “We would be in your debt,” he said gravely.

Overall, the meeting with Master Lan had gone quite well, Wei Wuxian thought. The man was stuffy and stiff as any clan elder, but he did clearly take his responsibility to Cloud Recesses seriously. But by the time it was over, Wei Wuxian felt like he’d just been through one of the thornier strategy sessions during the Sunshot Campaign, navigating prickly tempers and even pricklier egos: mentally exhausted, even as his limbs vibrated with residual tension. This was definitely going to be a night dedicated to hard, focused physical training, to smooth out the knotted qi.

But that could wait until later, when his companions had gone to bed and wouldn’t be disturbed by his evening acrobatics. For now, he was quite content to sit on the veranda, the wood still warm from the sun, slowly running his comb through hair damp from an after-dinner shower as he watched twilight settle over the garden and basked in the bliss of not thinking for a while.

Really, hot showers were an absolutely brilliant creation. How had he survived all these years deprived of them?

Of course, that thought led to another that he’d been idly turning over in his mind for a while now.

“When you said that cultivators and cultivation were legends,” he said, still looking out at the garden as the gathering dusk grew deep enough to activate the small lamps scattered through the garden like lost stars – and oh, Shijie would have loved those. “You did not mean stories about people very far away. You meant fiction.”

He’d suspected as much, based on the way everyone he’d met had reacted to his sword skills and talismans. But he hadn’t been sure, and given that his grasp of the language was still at least half context and guesswork – hence the concentration headache still stubbornly lingering after the day’s meeting! – he hadn’t wanted to assume. But his conversation with Lan Wangji at the museum had certainly supported the possibility, and the utter lack of any kind of wards on the dragon bones, even the very basic sort that even common villagers might use, even more so.

But the conversation with Lan Qiren had clinched it for him. He was, after all, very familiar with the irritation of an elder forced to take what he had assumed to be nonsense seriously!

Lan Wangji’s hands didn’t so much as hesitate on the strings of his guqin. “Mn. Wen Yuan has one such book, if you wish to see an example.”

Wei Wuxian grinned at the ripples on the pond. Ah, so that was the book that Lan Wangji had refused to give him that day! He’d wondered why they’d been hiding it. “Yes! I really want to read that,” he said gleefully.

Because he definitely wanted to see what interesting things people had dreamed up when they had no limits placed on them by everyone knows and we’ve always and the proper way and foolish nonsense! There were probably some awesome ideas to be gleaned from it!

Granted, probably a lot of hilarious misconceptions, too, given some of the stories told about cultivators even in his time.

Lan Wangji continued playing, the resonant harmonies filling the evening without actually disturbing the quiet feel of the garden. The tune was unfamiliar, and Wei Wuxian wondered if that was because it had been introduced after his time, or if it was an original composition. Lan Wangji was certainly accomplished enough as a musician to have a few!

However, he could feel the weight of the man’s eyes on him, heavy with an unasked question. So he simply hummed a bit in accompaniment and glanced over to meet that stare, blinking and tilting his head slightly in invitation.

Lan Wangji hesitated another moment, then asked, “What is the purpose of cultivation?”

Wei Wuxian blinked again. “Purpose? As in… what was it meant to do?”

The scholar nodded. “In our stories, cultivators are… separate from the world, and attempting to become immortal. Without death,” he added as clarification. “To become more than human. But the things you spoke of today. Wards. Cleansing. Those seemed… very practical.”

Wei Wuxian had to huff a laugh at that. Because… well. Cultivators certainly liked to say they were detached from worldly things and seeking immortality. Not that anyone seemed to ever achieve it, outside rumors and legends like Baoshan-sanren.

Now that was an interesting thought. Would Baoshan-sanren still be out there, hidden away on her mountain?

For that matter, did he count as immortal? He had survived fifteen hundred years frozen in ice, after all.

That was a very strange thought.

But really… In his experience, “seeking detachment from worldly things in search of immortality” generally only came up when the clans wanted an excuse to not get involved in annoying things like bandits and bad roads. Unless, of course, they got something out of it!

Which wasn’t all that surprising. After all… maybe seeking immortality had meant something, when sects were gatherings of teachers and their disciples. But since Wen Mao and the shift to clan-based sects… well, most clan cultivators cultivated because that was simply what one did, not because they’d chosen to become cultivators.

Which rather explained why many of those same gentry cultivators tended to hit a wall when it came to developing their cultivation beyond a certain point. Maybe that was why cultivation had become a lost art.

Although if he were to be honest… the larger clan sects had already been steadily swallowing up or simply choking out the rogue cultivators and smaller sects long before Wen Ruohan had set out to do the same to them. Given what had happened to the Wen after the war, and the sort of constant politicking and feuding that he’d seen between the victorious sects, and that filled Lan Wangji’s histories…

Well. He knew from personal experience just how easily a great clan and all its special secrets could be wiped out. The Jiang had lost more than disciples in the massacre at Lotus Pier, they’d lost knowledge. Given how quickly a clan could fall from power… maybe he should be more surprised the sects had lasted as long as they had!

He smiled wryly, and then turned his wandering thoughts back to the original question. “There is a connection,” he explained. “The idea of a cultivator is to be separate from things of the world. The doing is different. If the…” Oh. Hm. He wasn’t sure what the term dragon lines was in the new language. For that matter, he didn’t even know if they had the concept. Marking that in the back of his mind – because he wasn’t really inclined to go word-hunting at the moment, entertaining as it usually was – he settled on, “If the meridians of the places are not okay, cultivating is harder. So cultivators need to fix problems.”

Argh. He could feel how clumsy those words were. Which normally didn’t bother him; beautiful language had a time and place and he absolutely intended to master that aspect simply because it was fun to make words dance, but talking was mostly about getting a message across and thus far he’d managed quite well, thank you.

But cultivation was tricky enough without worrying about mistranslation and terms that were just different enough that he might try to say something only to have something else be heard. Which was why he was recruiting Lan Wangji to help him with the cultivation manual he was putting together!

Lan Wangji didn’t respond immediately, hands moving smoothly over the strings as he considered what Wei Wuxian had said. Then: “Meridians of places. You said before that qi flows stronger in some places. Are these meridians what you meant?”

Ah, he’d remembered that! As Wei Wuxian should have expected. Really, it was probably just as well that they’d been born centuries apart. The heavens could only survive so much! “Yes!” he confirmed, grinning approval at the man. “They often follow large mountains and large rivers. They affect all qi around them.”

Lan Wangji nodded thoughtfully. “And what happens if they become warped?” Wei Wuxian tilted his head, and Lan Wangji clarified, “To be warped is to become not right. To become an incorrect shape.”

Hm. A useful word, that. “What happens? Not good things!” he said, and had to smile a bit at his own understatement. There really was an interesting artistry in speaking well with such limited words, it was practically a game by this point.

Still, not good things was probably a little too understated. Pursing his lips, Wei Wuxian considered his options. “Plants grow strange. Animals go other places, or change in bad ways. Or just die. People, too. And dead things are very tetchy!”

That was a fun turn of phrase, and so very expressive. Although he did also enjoy the disgruntled look that crossed Lan Wangji’s face whenever he used it!

Although, since they were on the topic anyway… “The mountains near Yiling were like that,” he added. “There was a battle there, long before. It was a big battle. Many people died badly. The dying warped the meridians in that place. People called it the Burial Mounds.” He started to tilt his head in query, only to huff as his comb reached a place where his hair had tangled. “Is it still there?”

He couldn’t see the man’s face, but he could hear the thoughtful frown in that level voice as Lan Wangji answered. “I do not believe so. Yiling has many local legends, but I have not heard of such a place. The town itself is small, but prosperous enough.”

Wei Wuxian grinned at that. “So the cleansing worked! I had thought it had, but…” He shrugged ruefully.

Ah. And there was that steady stare between his shoulders again. “I learned a new thing during the war,” he explained. “So I tried.”

Granted, it had been a little more complicated than that. There’d been the problem of the Wen remnants, exiled to a desolate and dangerous area that had been all but abandoned for centuries. And… he’d developed his guidao in wartime, as a weapon. He’d wanted it to be more than that, had wanted to focus on the potential for night hunts and cleansing of corrupted lands.

Although those hadn’t been his only reasons.

Lan Wangji didn’t say anything for a moment, probably weighing his questions and deciding whether or not they were appropriate. So Wei Wuxian wasn’t exactly surprised when the man commented, “That would have been quite a long way from your home.”

Just a neutral statement – leaving Wei Wuxian free to choose whether or not he wanted to answer the implied question without forcing him to be so rude as to avoid or ignore a direct query. Really, the man was almost ridiculously considerate!

He chuckled. “Not so far,” he demurred. After all, Yiling had been within Yunmeng Jiang’s sphere of influence, technically. Very technically, because no sect had really wanted to lay a direct claim and possibly end up on the hook for being responsible for the Burial Mounds. Which had made it a convenient place to distance himself from Lotus Pier without actually leaving.

Not that Jiang Cheng had seen much of a difference.

He carefully maneuvered the comb, teasing the tangled strands apart again. Very, very carefully; the comb, made of lavender jade that shaded from clouded white in the teeth to violet in the lotus that formed the body, had been a gift from Jiang Yanli before her wedding. He’d treasured it and treated it with care, but the wear and tear of nearly three years of rough living had definitely taken a toll.

He had the feeling that she’d already suspected what he was considering when she’d given it to him. He’d overheard her pleading with Jiang Cheng one night shortly before she’d left for Lanling.

“Please, A’Cheng. Don’t drive A’Xian away. You’ll never find a stronger or more loyal second.”

Wei Wuxian had to huff slightly at the memory, smiling ruefully. I’m pretty sure that was the problem, Shijie.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lan Wangji looking at him, the odd amber of his eyes penetrating in the low light. “You went alone?”

Well, that cut right to the heart of the matter, didn’t it. How awkward. Really, Lan Wangji was altogether too observant!

“Jiang Cheng was hurt when Lotus Pier was attacked,” he answered, and this time he was picking his words carefully for more reasons than the awkward maneuvering of his limited vocabulary. “It made doing things difficult. During the war it was not a problem. He was the sect leader, he led, he did not fight! But after…” He made a face, remembering the patronizing sympathies, the subtle and not so subtle at all power grabs, the oh-so-concerned comments about such a large responsibility…

He shook his head. “Jiang Cheng needed to show other leaders that he was strong. That he did not need help.”

More importantly, Jiang Cheng had needed to convince himself of that. Which was hard for him to do when he spent half his time demanding that Wei Wuxian do more and the other half seething over the fact that Wei Wuxian was doing things that Jiang Cheng was convinced he himself should have been doing if he could. Not a good situation.

He sometimes wondered what would have happened if Jiang Cheng hadn’t lost his core after the fall of Lotus Pier. The loss had shattered him, and Wei Wuxian suspected that he hadn’t so much healed as shoved the pieces back in place so he didn’t have to think about them. But it had also meant he had something to blame when he never measured up to the impossible demand whispering in the back of his mind that nothing was enough, he needed to do, be, have, get more. If he hadn’t lost his core… it might even have been worse.

Granted, the guidao hadn’t helped. Jiang Cheng hadn’t cared during the war; during the war, it had been Yunmeng Jiang proving their strength to the other sects. Wei Wuxian’s strength had been Jiang Cheng’s. But after…

Jiang Cheng had been captured by Wen Chao and lost his core. Wei Wuxian had been captured by Wen Chao and come out the other side with a terrifying new cultivation path that made him even stronger than before, and on some level Wei Wuxian suspected that Jiang Cheng had never forgiven him for that.

It hadn’t been intentional. He’d gotten lucky, taking Wen Zhuliu out with a desperate last strike before he’d been captured while leading Wen Chao’s forces away from Jiang Cheng. Then Wen Chao had thrown him in the Burial Mounds, and… well.

So he’d left for a while. Yunmeng Jiang was recovering well, established as a force to be reckoned with; they could afford for him to cultivate in seclusion for a year or two, and maybe Jiang Cheng would sort himself out better without that engrained, constant resentment snapping at the back of his mind.

But! He saw no reason to inflict that whole complicated mess on his host, not when it was a thousand and more years past. So instead he concluded, “So! I let him do that. I am glad the cleansing worked. It took three years!”

Not exactly the subtlest of subject changes. But, after a moment’s consideration, Lan Wangji went along with it. “Will the oracle bones require a similar amount of time? You did not mention how long it might take.”

The last tangle defeated, Wei Wuxian hummed thoughtfully, tapping the comb against his upper lip. “Will the cleansing take that long? No,” he said, stowing the comb back in its case and plucking up his ribbon. “How long will it take?” He grinned. “That is your choice!”

Lan Wangji blinked, which in any other man would probably have been a full-body jolt.

Grin widening, Wei Wuxian kicked his legs up from where he’d been dangling them over the edge of the veranda, using the momentum to spin himself around to settle into a cross-legged position facing Lan Wangji. “Yes! You,” he confirmed, propping an elbow on one knee and resting his chin on his palm. “Do you want to learn?”

Lan Wangji hesitated. “Would that not take some time? If the oracle bones are dangerous, I do not want to delay dealing with them.”

Wei Wuxian waved his free hand. “Time? Yes, to…” Hm. Add golden core to the phrases he needed to work out. “…to become a finished cultivator,” he fudged. “But! You do not have to be a finished cultivator to do things. And Gusu Lan did cultivation with music.” He nodded to the guqin and winked. “Will it take time? Yes. But it will be easier with help. And to prepare will take time too! So the delay will be not too much.”

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have suggested it. Cleansing cursed items was usually safer than night hunts, if only because there were far fewer uncontrolled variables in the situation, but there was always the possibility of something going seriously wrong. There was a reason why such rituals were carried out in dedicated, warded locations; establishing such a space here would be part of the preparations.

Although. He had some suspicions about where the Mingshi of Cloud Recesses had ended up.

Still. Normally, he’d never consider bringing in someone who hadn’t even started proper training yet, let alone formed a core…

Except that Lan Wangji had training. Not in cultivation per se, but his physical regimen combined with his meditation practice had cleared and strengthened his meridians over time, building on what seemed to be a natural sensitivity – evidenced by how readily he reacted when Wei Wuxian deliberately projected his own qi slightly.

More importantly, he had discipline and focus. For example, despite Wei Wuxian deliberately drawing him into conversation and startling him, his hands had never once faltered on the guqin’s strings. And for musical cultivation, that as much as the strength of one’s cultivation was usually the deciding factor.

Not to mention that Wei Wuxian was fully confident of his ability to handle some dried out old bones if they decided to be troublesome, thank you.

Besides. Lan Wangji might not show it on his face, but it was quite clear that he wanted to learn. How could Wei Wuxian say no to that?

So he scooted across the boards to join Lan Wangji at the guqin, leaning in close so he could reach the strings himself. “Here. The first song to learn is called Rest…”

NOTES:

As I noted previously: with no Wen Qing, there was no core transfer. And with no Wen Ning, rescuing Jiang Cheng from Lotus Pier would have been much more dangerous. So in this setting, Wei Wuxian led the pursuit away, but was eventually captured and thrown into the Mounds as per canon, although he did manage to kill Wen Zhuliu in the fighting.

As an aside, I didn’t go with Wei Wuxian losing his core here because the time displacement renders the whole “untangling the backstory” a lot less relevant (and the excitement is more cultivation in general rather than guidao) – and I’m of the opinion that, given what we know of the Burial Mounds, he would have ended up needing to invent guidao to escape regardless of whether he had a core because conventional cultivation simply didn’t have the necessary capabilities.

One neat detail about Wei Wuxian’s guidao is that he starts with big, scary abilities, because he starts out fighting in a war. But the things he seems to have developed after the war are all much more oriented to protection and night hunting – scaling things down to more everyday uses. He basically starts with the Big Booms and only gets to work on actual functional, practical uses later!

Geography note: I stumbled across a fandom guess that the Burial Mounds of MDZS are loosely associated with the Battle of Yiling (you can find it on Wikipedia), so I went looking for a nearby mountain range, which is where “Daba Mountains” came up. Mount Dafan is, of course, yoinked from the novel – although it would be a very, very different kind of mountain in this setting, given I’m putting a glacier on it!

(Thought, honestly? I think you could make an argument for the Battle of Changping being the origin, given that apparently they’re still finding mass graves even in the modern day!)

The conversation with Lan Qiren a fun interaction to write, because this is a Lan Qiren with no Cangse Sanren grudge, canon’s classism doesn’t apply, and he’s dealing with Wei Wuxian as an adult that he has to treat as competent. It makes for a very different dynamic than canon! And Wei Wuxian is getting a very, very different impression of Lan Qiren this time, because rather than an antagonistic and hypocritical authority figure, he’s meeting a Lan Qiren saying, “We have a responsibility to spread the word of this dangerous thing and how to contain it.” It definitely makes for a better impression on Wei Wuxian’s part!

To be honest, I think the Lan Xichen scene was born more from my reaction to fanon than the novel itself. For one thing… for all that fandom likes to write Lan Xichen as a Teasing Older Brother (in a way that I’ll freely admit I find grating, even when the author seems to think it’s cute), the only scene in the novel that I can think of that involves Lan Xichen teasing Lan Wangji is when he invites Wei Wuxian to the Lake Biling hunt. Granted, circumstances are different here, in that I decided, going into this plot, that Lan Wangji’s family already knows he’s gay. But…

Well. Be warned, this turned into an essay. In part because I’m still working through how to articulate it.

A quick request: no character bashing in the comments, please. No essays about how Lan Xichen is just the worst. He’s not. I think, perhaps, that’s why people have such extreme reactions to him. Beyond fanon painting him as Pure and Good… of all the deeply flawed characters in the story, Lan Xichen is one we’re led to expect better from. With Su Minshan and Jin Guangyao and Xue Yang and Sect Leader Yao, we don’t expect any better. But Lan Xichen disappoints.

With that said…

Part of why “teasing Lan Xichen” irks me is that, canon and fanon alike, it’s extremely one-sided. Lan Wangji is not participating, he just endures it. He does not enjoy it. In fact, it seems to make him unhappy and uncomfortable. And getting your entertainment by making someone else unhappy… Personally? Not cool. Maybe it’s a brotherly thing, but it’s not a good thing.

It makes Lan Xichen come off as deeply thoughtless. And… I think it’s that very impression of thoughtlessness which is part of why that characterization rings true to me.

For one thing, Lan Xichen has a pattern of doing things contrary to what Lan Wangji actually wants. Inviting Wei Wuxian on the Caiyi trip? Definitely not anything Lan Wangji wanted. Lan Xichen pretty much gaslights Lan Wangji to keep him from arguing in Wei Wuxian’s defense when Jin Guangyao complains about Wei Wuxian calling out Jin Guangshan’s efforts to become the next Wen Ruohan. And then there’s the whole part where Lan Xichen led a force of more than thirty cultivators to drag Lan Wangji away from Wei Wuxian “for his own good.” Not to mention that his whole rant in the temple is an attempt to do exactly what Lan Wangji was most afraid of: make Wei Wuxian feel like he owes Lan Wangji. Consider how Lan Wangji would have reacted if Wei Wuxian had, in fact, decided that he owed Lan Wangji a relationship because of that. Ouch.

(Though to be honest, I tend to read that rant as maybe ten percent actual grudge, and ninety percent projection and deflection.)

Even when he’s supposedly being supportive, it comes off to me as very… shallow. He encourages Lan Wangji to go talk to Wei Wuxian at the Flower Banquet, but he doesn’t seem to have ever explored why Lan Wangji wants to do so. Or done anything to help Lan Wangji’s interactions with Wei Wuxian not constantly devolve into arguments.

Lan Xichen wants Lan Wangji to be happy. But he doesn’t seem to pay any attention to the specifics of what would actually make Lan Wangji happy.

I’ll note, as an aside, that Lan Wangji is not the only one who gets hit by this short-sightedness. Lan Xichen’s lack of interest in the roots of the conflict between Nie Mingje and Jin Guangyao is part of what gets Nie Mingjue killed. And then… think about the temple in Yunping – but the ending, not the infamous rant at the beginning. The ending – when Lan Xichen asks Nie Huaisang for medicine to treat Jin Guangyao’s severed arm.

Now, to be fair, Lan Xichen gave him the bottle of medicine in the first place. And he’s legitimately mentally and emotionally exhausted. But still, that’s a seriously bold (and kinda callous) request to begin with. Especially when you take a moment, step back, and remember that Lan Xichen has zero reason to think Nie Huaisang had anything to do with all of this. So far as Lan Xichen knows, Nie Huaisang only in the last hour learned that his brother was murdered. By Jin Guangyao. A guy Nie Huaisang trusted and has been relying on ever since. You know, the whole revelation that Lan Xichen himself has been struggling over this whole time.

The guy that Lan Xichen now wants medicine for. From Nie Huaisang. That guy.

Ow.

And… I think it all comes back to the line he gives us when talking about his mother’s story: He doesn’t know the truth, and he does not want to know. The real tragedy of this, to me… is that Lan Xichen doesn’t fail to comprehend other people because he can’t. He doesn’t understand other people because he does not want to. He wants to be ignorant, because that lets him – to borrow a turn of phrase from a meta I read once – exist in a kind of Schrödinger’s morality: as long as he doesn’t look, everyone is good and no one is bad. Everyone he cares about, at least.

Honestly, I kind of see him as an embodiment of the three monkeys. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. And if that means actively covering his eyes and ears, so be it. He is in denial.

But I often see his actions framed as, “He may be in the wrong, but he’s being a protective older brother!” Whereas to me, it’s, “He may be a protective older brother, but he is in the wrong.”

Does Lan Xichen love Lan Wangji? Absolutely yes, do not dare tell me he does not.

But Lan Xichen’s love comes hand in hand with his refusal to see.

The thing is… there’s a tendency, at least in Western culture, to see love as inherently pure and good. So long as the motivation is love, no matter what happens, it can’t be that bad.

And… that’s not true. Love can be the driving force behind absolutely toxic and poisonous behavior. Love is no guarantee of a healthy relationship. Even at its best, love still takes work, and effort, and overcoming your own issues, or else it’s meaningless. It can even cross the line into harmful. This is actually one of things I like most about MDZS and MXTS’s work as a whole: there’s a running theme of relationships that are fundamentally founded in love… and go very wrong.

Which brings me to Jiang Cheng.

Jiang Cheng is a tricky character – all the more so because fandom seems very polarized around him, and because different adaptations definitely cast him in rather different lights. I could write (rather, have written) several thousand words of meta just trying to sort out how I interpret him. But in short, my take is:

Does Jiang Cheng love Wei Wuxian? Absolutely.

And they would both have been far better off if he didn’t, because Jiang Cheng does not have a healthy relationship to love itself.

Jiang Cheng reads to me as a classic case of what a friend says is called FLEAs – frightening lasting effects of abuse, aka the pattern where an abused child carries on the toxic patterns of behavior because they absorbed them from the abusive parent. On top of that, Madam Yu’s emotional abuse – and she absolutely is abusive, in that she treats Jiang Cheng primarily as an extension of herself and uses him as a weapon against his father – left Jiang Cheng deeply insecure… and most of his insecurities seem to revolve around loving and being loved.

So long as there was an outside force that Jiang Cheng could feel unified with Wei Wuxian against, he was stable in their relationship – because he was confident that Wei Wuxian needed him. Jin Guangshan was very smart to set himself up as a concerned senior, rather than an interloper. Because once there wasn’t an outside factor, all those insecurities and resentments came bubbling up again.

Add in the fact that in this setting, there was no golden core transfer, and… yeah. Unlike canon (where he was actually fine with Wei Wuxian as his first disciple until Jin Guangshan and the other sect leaders started poking his insecurities again), things would have been very tense after the war.

Chapter Text

“Ha! I was right!”

Amused by his own sense of deja vu, Lan Wangji looked away from the handwritten translation he had been transcribing onto his computer and glanced over to the corner that had, over the past few weeks, turned into Wei Wuxian’s study, complete with a small writing desk acquired from the university surplus stores and the upholstered chair he’d gleefully laid claim to when Lan Wangji raised the possibility.

“It is like a bed, but for reading!” he’d laughed. “What would I not like about that?”

It was fortunate that the Jingshi’s study was a relatively spacious room to begin with; adding a workspace for a second person made the room cozy, but not cramped. And the proximity made it easier to work on their current project, the translation of the cultivation primer Wei Wuxian had written.

Which had been… challenging. Not so much in terms of the language itself; Wei Wuxian was a clear and concise writer, and had clearly modeled his prose on the writing in the modern books they’d given him, rather than the classical texts of his time.

The problem, Lan Wangji had to reluctantly admit, was his own scholastic training. Time and again he found himself stumbling over terminology that he had thought he’d known – but as abstract philosophical concepts, not concrete methods and actual physical reality.

He was still reeling somewhat from the revelation that a jīndān, a golden core, was a real thing. Wen Qing had spluttered.

To make matters even more complicated, the terminology had not remained static over the centuries. Despite cultivation having apparently been lost at some point, the ideas and language had remained. But without the actual practice to ground them, the concepts had drifted about, accreting new nuances and ideas. Which meant that even if there was a modern term equivalent to the original, it might have accrued so many extraneous associations that it was actually more misleading than a less historically accurate but also less loaded word.

And to make that call, Lan Wangji had to know what Wei Wuxian actually meant by those words.

Which meant cultivating.

So now the morning was dedicated to cultivation training, Wei Wuxian slowly leading Lan Wangji through the basics. Wen Yuan participated as well, but only to a point; Wei Wuxian was refusing to let the boy advance to anything beyond the basic physical exercises and meditation until they had a clearer grasp of how to articulate what was needed in modern Mandarin. An ultimatum that Lan Wangji and Wen Qing had both vehemently seconded, to Wen Yuan’s disappointment.

Although Lan Wangji suspected that the disappointment was mingled with relief. Even the very basic exercises were… difficult.

But the direct experience was invaluable for clarifying the language he needed… although, to his utter chagrin, he was finding that far too often, the most appropriate terminology came, not from folklore and philosophy and traditional medicine, but xianxia genre conventions.

It felt almost insultingly… non-intellectual. How could they expect to ask the world to take spiritual cultivation seriously when they were using a framework gleaned from popular genre fiction? But Wen Yuan had argued cogently that the genre did provide a coherent lexicon of commonly used terms and concepts.

Assuming, of course, that the genre conventions were at all accurate. Which was why, now that Wei Wuxian was fluent enough in modern Mandarin that exposure and immersion were more effective than formal lessons, he and Wen Yuan were gleefully having far too much fun making their way through the xianxia novel Wen Yuan had brought. Ostensibly so that Wei Wuxian could check his knowledge against popular assumptions, both to mine the genre for useful vocabulary and to better understand assumptions people were likely to make about him, but it had not slipped Lan Wangji’s notice that many of those reading sessions seemed to end with the two sneaking out to the garden to see if this or that might actually work. Usually followed by wild laughter or even wilder victorious whoops.

He was mature enough to admit that he was very tempted to join them. But he refrained; he had challenges enough mastering the musical cultivation techniques Wei Wuxian was teaching him.

Which were fascinating. He had, on some level, assumed that musical cultivation was a matter of learning specific secret songs. And in a way, it was, but…

“The Lan learned songs,” Wei Wuxian had told him, spinning his dizi in his fingers after demonstrating one such song. “One song, one result. But the songs are not the cultivation, they are… meditation aids. Music creates energy. It makes the heart move.” He’d smiled wryly. “Master the energy, and any song will serve, so long as it moves as needed.”

Which was when Lan Wangji had belatedly realized that Wei Wuxian was not just carrying the dizi because he enjoyed music – although he clearly did – but also because it was a tool he used in cultivation. Which did help explain his choice of instrument; Lan Wangji could not imagine carrying a guqin into potentially dangerous situations or when regularly traveling.

Although he had chosen the guqin for himself, as the instrument he knew the best. And after consideration, he’d opted to follow the Lan tradition, at least as much as Wei Wuxian was able to recreate the original songs. In part because he felt the stability of set pieces with specific effects would give an added structure that would assist him in making up for a late start. But also… he couldn’t deny that there was something personally appealing about the thought of restoring a tradition that his own family had once practiced.

It also helped that, knowing the guqin, he already had the vocabulary needed to express some of what he was learning.

Normally, he would be practicing at this time – but Nie Huaisang had somehow managed to wheedle his way into actually meeting Wei Wuxian at last. Which was… understandable. After all, if Nie Huaisang was going to be handling the public announcement of Wei Wuxian’s unexpected survival, he needed to get to know the man at the heart of everything. But Lan Wangji had no interest in being Nie Huaisang’s entertainment, no matter what leading comments the man made about cultivation demonstrations.

So since Wen Yuan was away at the library, they had settled in Lan Wangji’s study, Lan Wangji transcribing the results of their translations thus far and Wei Wuxian working – he’d thought – on a written plan for the cleansing of the oracle bones, so that Lan Qiren could make the necessary administrative arrangements.

But when he looked over, Wei Wuxian wasn’t drafting talisman designs in a spare notebook, or carefully typing on the secondhand laptop they’d acquired for him to use. (Which had the wireless network disabled for the moment; he was still familiarizing himself with computers more broadly, he did not need the distraction of the internet on top of that.) Instead, he was holding one of the campus maps that Lan Wangji had provided.

Noticing Lan Wangji’s interest, Wei Wuxian turned the map around to show that it had been marked over, and extensively, the clean layout of the campus nearly covered by a mess of shapes and lines in a riot of colors. “I was curious,” he explained. “Cloud Recesses has changed a lot! I wanted to see how much.”

Intrigued, Lan Wangji turned fully away from the computer. Obligingly, Wei Wuxian crossed the room to lean against the edge of the desk, leaning forward and holding the map out so that both of them could look at it comfortably.

Although comfortable was perhaps not quite the right word for Lan Wangji’s feelings about such casual, careless proximity. It did not help that Wei Wuxian had opted to dress casually for Nie Huaisang’s visit, which meant he was wearing some of Lan Wangji’s spare clothes: a long button-down shirt loose over a fitted tank top in deference to the relatively hot day – he’d admitted that going without at least one layer that covered his arms and upper legs left him feeling distinctly underdressed.

It was a good look. Lan Wangji also could not help noticing that the powerful muscles from a cultivator’s training meant that the fitted tank top was… very fitted.

Wei Wuxian tapped a set of shapes traced out in black over the historic section. “This is the old Cloud Recesses,” he explained. “Before the war.”

Lan Wangji blinked. The area was larger than he’d expected, occupying almost the full space of the historic complex that he knew today. He’d expected it to be smaller, for some reason… although in hindsight, it made sense that a complex meant to be the headquarters of a powerful and growing clan would be at least as large as one dedicated to a monastic community.

A number of the current buildings on the map had been highlighted in yellow. Indicating them with the light touch of a finger, Lan Wangji prompted, “And these?”

“Ah. Those are a guess,” Wei Wuxian admitted. “How it was rebuilt after the war.”

Interesting. The older layout was reminiscent of the very early temples of the first silk roads era during the Han, still very much influenced by Indian architecture – which made sense, given what Wei Wuxian had recounted of the clan’s founder. The newer layout was definitely closer in style to the temples of the Sui and Tang, probably reflecting the way designs had shifted over time.

Although, something about the layout…

Letting that elusive impression rest in the back of his mind, Lan Wangji asked, “How did you recreate this?” Because while most of the highlighted buildings corresponded to ones that were still present, not all of them did.

“I used these,” Wei Wuxian replied, indicating the other set of lines, a series of arrows in neon pink and green that ran over the entire map in loops and swirls, like a wind map in a weather report or a water drainage analysis.

(Lan Wangji was not sure they wouldn’t live to regret Wei Wuxian discovering fluorescent highlighters. Heavens knew what would happen if he got his hands on glitter gel pens.)

Hm. “Qi flows?”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “These…” He indicated the pink arrows. “These are the qi flows of when Cloud Recesses was built. When the Lan rebuilt, they would have used them to guide the building.”

Lan Wangji nodded thoughtfully – and, inwardly, allowed himself a moment of warm pride in how far Wei Wuxian had progressed in such a short time. His phrasing was still too careful, too precise, stilted by the occasional odd word choice or circumlocution, but he was speaking easily and confidently now. Fluent enough to at least get by without drawing more than the occasional odd look from his accent and somewhat stilted word choices and grammar. It was an astounding accomplishment after less than two months of learning, with almost no resources in his own language.

“And these?” he asked, pointing to the rather violently green arrows. Some of them followed the same lines as the pink, but he couldn’t help noticing that the farther onto the map they went – and particularly, the farther onto the campus – the more scattered and disordered the arrows became.

“Ah.” Wei Wuxian rubbed the side of his nose with a crooked smile. “Those are the qi flows now. After the mountain broke.”

Which would have altered the fengshui of the area, and with it the qi flows. And while fengshui was considered important in planning construction even today… without a cultivator’s sensitivity to qi, it was likely that mistakes were made. Especially since, as with the cultivation concepts he had been wrestling with, at least some principles would have drifted over time.

Although it was still an odd feeling to hear Wei Wuxian speak of such things, when fengshui as it was understood today had only really been codified in the Song dynasty – five hundred years and more after Wei Wuxian’s time.

And now that elusive impression was becoming clearer in his mind. Because if he recalled Wei Wuxian’s original explanation of how wards worked, comparing them to irrigation canals that, once established, would siphon energy from the natural flow of qi and redirect it into a specific pattern to produce the desired effect… Well. It made sense that natural and manmade features would have a similar effect, for one. But also…

“The new layout is not unlike the ward talismans you showed us,” he observed.

Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows bounced up, and the look he gave Lan Wangji was both startled and impressed, followed by a slow smile that sent a warm ripple through him, even Lan Wangji chided himself against excessive pride at evoking that reaction. “Ah, you noticed!” He looked at the yellow marks, smiling crookedly. “It was an idea I told Lan Yi about once… I suppose she decided to use it after all.”

Lan Wangji hesitated, weighing whether his next question might be too prying, too personal. (Too much a matter of his own less than selfless motives.) But… he could not help being curious. By all accounts, Wei Wuxian had been a disciple of the Yunmeng Jiang. And yet… first to learn that he had apparently gifted the prototype of his compass to the leader of another clan, and now this. It seemed… odd.

Finally, curiosity won out. “Were you and Lan Yi close?” he asked carefully, hoping that he was not being insulting or implying anything… indecorous.

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “Close? I suppose. Jiang Cheng hated that! Lan Yi often threatened to… hm. To make me her son?”

Oh. Apparently there had been more of an age gap than he’d assumed. “To adopt,” he answered, and was very glad that nothing in his face or voice betrayed the ugly curl of burgeoning jealousy that had wisped away in embarrassment. At least only he knew how ridiculous he’d been – and over someone who’d been dead for fifteen hundred years.

And now he was glad he’d asked, rather than continuing to stew in his own ridiculousness.

Wei Wuxian grinned and nudged Lan Wangji with his arm. “She would have adopted you, too,” he said, lowering his voice as if imparting a delightful secret. “You are skilled in music, and you see small things that are important – and you are pretty!”

Ears hot, Lan Wangji hastily grabbed for a change of subject – even as his traitorous mind gleefully filed away the knowledge that Wei Wuxian not only considered him aesthetically pleasing, but also had no qualms against stating as much out loud. He just had no cultural context to know if that would have been a normal part of friendly camaraderie in Wei Wuxian’s time, or if perhaps there was… something more that could be read into it. “If it is a ward, what is the purpose?”

“Hmmm.” Wei Wuxian tilted his head slightly. “First is to smooth the flow of qi and make it stronger. Second is to be the base for other wards.”

“Protection?” That seemed a logical assumption, at least.

Wei Wuxian nodded. “Usually,” he said. “Sometimes other things too. But usually protection.”

Lan Wangji marked the comment as one to return to later; he was curious about what other purposes wards might be used for. For the moment, however, he had a more pressing concern.

He indicated one of the highlighted places where there was no modern building; the original structure must have been removed or relocated during one of the many phases where the complex had been damaged and rebuilt over the centuries. “If it was a ward then, it is no longer intact. Is that a danger?”

“Mmm…” Wei Wuxian swayed a hand back and forth. “It is not dangerous. It is simply not useful.” He smiled wryly. “To change a ward so that its effect becomes something else – that is not a thing that happens by accident.” He shrugged. “But it is not good, either. The flow of qi is not smooth. Energy can go places it should not. That is part of your little problem with the oracle bones!”

Little problem, he called it. Lan Wangji still felt an atavistic chill every time he recalled that writhing, reaching shadow in the collections, even though Wei Wuxian had checked him over afterwards – and again under Wen Qing’s watchful eye, to demonstrate how basic cultivation first aid worked.

Which had definitely raised the specter of crossing ethical research lines again. Wen Qing had admitted that she’d only agreed to the demonstration, and the subsequent offer of training in how to do it herself, because Wei Wuxian had been the one to suggest it in the first place.

Lan Wangji was simply relieved that the rest of the project was receiving only basic updates, and that any more detailed information would be contingent on the submission of revised research proposals. It had at least bought them breathing room.

Research proposals that would be first reviewed by Lan Qiren, then Wen Qing and Lan Wangji… and then brought to Wei Wuxian himself for final approval. That… was a level of concession that he had not expected, and he had been honestly stunned when Lan Qiren outlined the plan to Wei Wuxian when they’d met.

Then again, Wen Qing’s summary of the fatality rates for curators had been… daunting. Lan Qiren believed in hard data; if the numbers showed a danger to the university’s students, faculty and staff, then he would take that seriously. And to their knowledge, Wei Wuxian was the only expert available.

Which made what he’d just said very important. “How so?”

Reaching over his shoulder, Wei Wuxian tapped one of the buildings. “This is your museum now, yes?”

Lan Wangji nodded thoughtfully. “…They rebuilt it in the same place, every time,” he realized. The black outline of the layout that Wei Wuxian remembered and the yellow highlighter marking the hypothetical reconstruction overlapped so perfectly on the core of the modern museum that he’d almost overlooked it. It was not the only example of such overlap, but there were not many, either.

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “It is more likely it was not lost,” he corrected. “The Míngshì had very strong wards!”

Fascinating. Perhaps that explained its survival when the historic complex had been burned during the Cultural Revolution.

Although it was also somewhat ominous. For the wards to still be at all effective after centuries of neglect, they must have been very strong originality. And that suggested there had been a need for that level of potency. “The… Dark Room?” he translated.

“Well. Yin qi and yuan qi are often dark,” Wei Wuxian said wryly. “The Mingshi was the place to do cleansing and to call spirits. It was also used to put things that were not okay to cleanse or destroy.”

That was unsettling, even though he had already considered that possibility. As Wen Yuan had noted, many people brought things to temples for exorcism. Although…

Ah. “It was used to summon spirits. So energy could enter. But it was meant to contain what came in.” He studied the green arrows again, noting the way the more chaotic patterns ran close to the museum.

Wei Wuxian nodded. “And yuan qi – resentful energy – it can be… hm. Sticky?”

Lan Wangji looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

Wei Wuxian huffed. “When one person is angry, people who are near also get angry. It spreads. But it also pulls. If a smaller energy is nearby, and does not have a thing to make it not move, it will be pulled into the larger energy. Like many angry people pull more and more people in.”

Those, Lan Wangji reflected, were the words of someone who had seen a mob in action. Not surprising, perhaps; between war, plague and famine, there would have been plentiful causes for unrest – and for people to seek a target on whom to vent their troubles. But he did understand the analogy. It did, however, raise a concern. “Will it interfere with cleansing the oracle bones?”

Wei Wuxian hummed thoughtfully, tapping his lower lip, then shrugged. “We knew there was much energy in them already,” he said. “It means to keep them cleansed after will take thinking. But! That the museum was once the Mingshi will help. There are wards already to use. Still! It would be good to fix.”

Lan Wangji nodded. The oracle bones seemed to be the most urgent concern, but if there was a systemic problem exacerbating the situation, it would have to be addressed.

Assuming intervention would even be possible. The current layout of the historic complex was the result of years of research and analysis. To change anything would be an uphill battle, even if they could prove that the changes would in fact reflect an earlier arrangement.

Lan Wangji glanced at Wei Wuxian, and blinked, distracted from his thoughts. The cultivator was looking at the map with a strangely complicated half-smile that seemed both wistful and bemused.

“Wei Wuxian?”

Wei Wuxian blinked at him, then laughed. “Ah! No need to worry, Lan Zhan!”

Lan Wangji huffed slightly – as he’d suspected, the man refused to let that name go – but continued to wait expectantly.

Wei Wuxian huffed in turn, waving a hand. “It is only that I have gotten used to knowing that the world is different! But – here is the Mingshi. It is… strange.”

“You knew Cloud Recesses well,” Lan Wangji observed. Recreating the layout was one thing – Wei Wuxian had an astonishing level of spatial awareness that would lend itself to such things. But knowing the details of its defenses, even suggesting improvements to them… Like his apparent closeness with Lan Yi, it seemed… odd.

Not to mention the graffiti in the Cold Springs.

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “Not so well,” he said judiciously. “But Gusu Lan had classes. The heirs of clans and some other disciples went to them.”

“Cultivation classes?” That seemed… unlikely, given that the overall impression that he’d gotten of cultivation sect dynamics was one of insularity, rivalry, and reluctant cooperation for the most part.

Wei Wuxian’s response to that was an inelegant snort. “That is what they were called,” he said dryly. “What was taught was manners and who was family to whom… and that teachers do not have to obey rules.”

Ah yes. Lan Wangji had experienced such classes – and teachers – himself.

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “Still, it was interesting. I met many people, and the library was interesting! Although I left after a few months.” He grinned. “They were probably glad! I was some trouble. Although Lan Yi seems to have thought the trouble was… hm. Fun to watch.”

“Imagine,” Lan Wangji said expressionlessly, deeply amused. He had no trouble picturing the sort of chaos Wei Wuxian might unleash if so motivated. As for Lan Yi…

A woman, leading what he gathered to be a highly conservative clan. He could see why she might appreciate a trouble-making and objectively brilliant young man stirring things up.

Wei Wuxian laughed, full-throated and bright. “Ah, you are not nice to say such things! I was not the only trouble, you know! Even Lan disciples liked to go to Caiyi when they should not have. The wine was very famous.” He blinked, tilting his head. “Ah. Does Caiyi still make Emperor’s Smile?”

Lan Wangji blinked. “I do not know,” he admitted. After the exceedingly disastrous aftermath of the one glass of wine he’d tried under his uncle’s supervision after turning eighteen, he had been quite content to have nothing to do with alcohol ever again.

Lan Xichen would know. His position in the university meant he was frequently played host to important guests, a process that generally featured gifts of local products that were particularly rare or desirable.

But…

“We could investigate,” he offered.

That caught Wei Wuxian’s attention immediately. Turning, he looked at Lan Wangji with wide eyes. “We?” he echoed, and Lan Wangji did not think he was imagining the hopeful note in the question.

Lan Wangji nodded. Wen Qing was still concerned about exposure, of course, but the initial round of vaccinations had been completed, and she was tentatively optimistic about the results.

That was part of why Nie Huaisang had finally been cleared for an introduction – to provide his input on how safe it might be for Wei Wuxian to begin venturing beyond Cloud Recesses. Lan Wangji was personally somewhat dubious of the man’s reliability, but Nie Huaisang did have the most accurate sense of what they could expect from the public.

“We will ask Nie Huaisang, when he arrives,” he told Wei Wuxian.

Who blinked at him. “He is already here.”

What.

The cultivator tilted his head in the direction of the door. “Someone who I do not know crossed the ward. He does not have bad… hm. Plan to do things to hurt?” He grinned. “But he is very nosy.”

The wards could read someone’s intent? That was fascinating, even if logical in hindsight, given their purpose. It would be interesting to know how that worked, if only for what it implied about how qi interacted with both the mind and the physical world, a divide that had frustrated scientists and philosophers for millennia…

However.

Rising from the chair, Lan Wangji stalked out of his office… and yes, there was Nie Huaisang standing in his garden, shamelessly craning his neck in an attempt to peer into the windows. At least the veranda kept him too far back to see anything, although Lan Wangji had no doubt that the man would have happily invited himself up in a minute or two, given he’d already walked into the private garden.

Adding insult to injury, Nie Huaisang didn’t even have the grace to act ashamed at being caught. “Ah, Lan Wangji!” he chirped, waving his omnipresent phone in greeting. “There you are! I knocked, but no one answered, but Dage said you would be home, so…”

“You are early,” Lan Wangji said flatly. Almost an hour early, at that!

“Well, yes, but…” Nie Huaisang lowered his phone to hold it to his lower lip, the tassel of artistically color-coordinated charms swaying back and forth with little chiming sounds. “I was planning to be on time!” he protested, eyes wide. “But then I got worried I might be late, it’s such a big campus, what if I got lost? And then those stairs were so long – really, hasn’t the university heard of accessibility? What if someone had a broken leg, or was just old, how are they supposed to get up all those stairs…”

Lan Wangji forced himself to ignore the rambling; he’d witnessed for himself how easily Nie Huaisang could pull a conversation off-topic. “Nie Mingjue was supposed to accompany you,” he said tightly.

Nie Huaisang tilted his head. “Yeeees, we did discuss that option… but I thought that the point of all this was to not make it obvious where Wei Wuxian is staying? I don’t know, it just seemed like I’d be far less conspicuous running around on my own than if I had the head of security showing me around, don’t you think? I mean, Dage is very noticeable!”

And that was the most infuriating part of dealing with Nie Huaisang. He fluttered, he deflected, he went off on tangents… and then he would say something like that and he would be right.

Then Nie Huaisang looked past Lan Wangji and blinked. Twice. “Oh. Huh. Hi!”

Leaning against the frame of the study door, Wei Wuxian grinned and waved – a broad, toothy grin that had Lan Wangji mentally bracing himself, because that was Wei Wuxian with mischief in mind.

Although for the moment, he seemed content to simply observe, even as Nie Huaisang slowly swept his gaze along the length of Wei Wuxian’s body, practically undressing him with his eyes…!

Then Nie Huaisang huffed and pointed his phone imperiously at the man. “Oh, absolutely not! That outfit is a travesty! We are getting you real clothes, stat!”

What. There was nothing wrong with the clothes. Lan Wangji wore them himself, and he was not vain but he was more than aware enough of the power of appearance to choose clothing that was suitable and not out of style. Wei Wuxian’s manner of wearing them was admittedly far more casual than Lan Wangji’s norm, but there was nothing inappropriate about it.

And Nie Huaisang didn’t even have the courtesy to acknowledge his stare, looking expectantly at Wei Wuxian. “Well? Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked, as if this were not Lan Wangji’s house.

“Hmmm.” Wei Wuxian tapped his cheek thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Should I?”

Nie Huaisang blinked, innocently earnest. “I mean, I am supposed to be helping you. It would be very rude to make me do that standing in the garden…”

Wei Wuxian eyed him with theatrical skepticism, then looked at Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji sighed. “As he is here already…” he said ungraciously.

Wei Wuxian nodded, then waved a hand nonchalantly. “Well then. You seem to have permission.” And then he smirked. “And if it is that you are doing something you should not… Wen Qing will be here soon, and that will be very funny for everyone who is not you!”

Nie Huaisang blinked. And then, unexpectedly, he grinned. “Oh, you and I are going to get along wonderfully,” he purred.

Somehow, Lan Wangji knew he was going to regret this.

Plopping his elbows on the table, Nie Huaisang turned to look at his brother. “So,” he asked, deliberately sly, “who’s adopting who between those three?”

Nie Mingjue blinked at him, completely nonplussed. Nie Huaisang just kept his wide-eyed Gossip Face on, but he snickered internally. Really, his Dage was so straightforward and clueless, it was honestly hilarious to tweak him about it every now and then.

Because, really. He’d done his snooping! Wen Yuan had effectively been adopted by Lan Wangji in all but the paperwork years ago, and probably the only thing stopping the paperwork was Lan Wangji’s unmarried status and his respect for the Wen siblings’ familial claim. And the boy had clearly imprinted on Wei Wuxian like a proverbial duckling. As for Lan Wangji…

Well. Nie Huaisang would not be at all surprised if it turned out that the scholar had been doing his research on ghost weddings. Just in case he needed to stake his claim before Wei Wuxian was officially acknowledged as being not dead.

He certainly hadn’t wasted any time marking his territory. Really, the look on his face when Nie Huaisang had criticized the clothes? Priceless.

Aaand Lan Qiren was scowling at him for whispering before the meeting was started. Thbbt. Still, he was the one who’d insisted on an update, so he supposed he might as well pay attention.

Hmph. Dage had better not expect this work ethic business to become a habit!

Still. One good thing about the man, Lan Qiren was all about getting down to business. Not Nie Huaisang’s thing, but he did appreciate it in others!

“As director of the Yiling Laozu project, I have considerable leeway in reporting the results of the project to our stakeholders,” he said briskly. “However, our grant obligations do include reporting every six months at minimum. All the more so because the project has undergone massive changes from the original plan we presented.”

“So we have at best four months before the cat is well and truly out of the bag,” Wen Qing concluded.

Lan Qiren pursed his lips, but nodded. “Given the situation, I believe that the best course of action will be to invite our primary grant providers to visit when the reporting period arrives. We can then explain the circumstances of the project in person, with a revised research plan prepared.”

Heh. Nie Huaisang was impressed; everyone at the table had very good poker faces, but he could feel the skepticism.

Which made it even better when he chirped, “That seems like a good plan!”

Not that an approach like that would pass muster in any other situation. He’d looked into how projects like this normally worked, and yeee-ikes, the paperwork alone was enough to get a man to try to annul his college degree in self-defense!

But the Yiling Laozu project was high-profile and controversial, and that meant the people who were funding it had a taste for theater. That sort of bigwig would be all over the cachet of being in on a secret, and that meant they could get away with making cryptic requests that would never fly under normal circumstances.

Of course, a side effect of that would be to convince everyone else that there was a secret to be in on, but hey. They were going to have to blow things wide open at some point, so why not dangle some hints to build anticipation?

The sort of mad theorizing it would set loose in the forums would be fantastic.

Granted, the fact that Wei Wuxian hadn’t actually agreed to anything yet did mean they were putting the cart before the horse. It would be pretty hard to justify continuing a big ticket research grant if the research subject told everyone to shove off! Although, fame by association was a tasty, tasty lure; they could probably talk people into it on that alone.

Besides. All it would take would be a hint or two that maybe they could shift the research to revive superpower cultivation in the modern age, and they’d probably have to beat off offers of even more money with one of those giant treatises on ethics in academic research.

Assuming, of course, that Lan Wangji the killjoy would agree to allowing demonstrations, because he’d mercilessly shot down every attempt Nie Huaisang had made to ask for one! He didn’t want to do cultivation – ugh, the thought of doing all that work gave him the hives! – but really! The least they could do was let him see some of what Wei Wuxian do, maybe a joyride or two on the man’s sword…

All right, fine, it was possible that the amount of innuendo he’d been tossing around could conceivably have something to do with Lan Wangji stonewalling him. But really, how was he supposed to resist such a golden opportunity?

Speaking of, the Face of Jade was out in force. “That satisfies our grant obligations. What of informing the public?”

Lan Qiren stroked his beard. “We will need to keep the research community informed, of course. But for announcing our results to the public…” Uncharacteristically, he hesitated. “It is my understanding,” he said, “that during the Three Kingdoms period, it was customary for children to mourn the death of a parent for three years?”

For once, Lan Wangji actually blinked. “That was the recommended custom,” he said slowly.

Lan Qiren huffed. “I am aware that it was simply a high class conceit based on the conspicuous performance of filial piety for the purpose of social advancement,” he said dryly. “Nevertheless. As Wei Wuxian is in fact facing the loss of any family he may have had, in addition to the substantial culture shock he faces, and given the probable public response… I believe that a three year grace period for him to adjust is not unreasonable. And it seems appropriate to base our decision on a standard set by his own culture, rather than an arbitrary one on our part.”

That… huh. That was a much more sensitive suggestion than Nie Huaisang had expected. He might owe the man a mental apology. Might.

And Dage was eyeing him as Nie Huaisang nodded agreeably. Which, really, his brother was so untrusting! After all, it was a very nice plan. Very neat. Tidy. Scheduled. Predictable.

“Now, regarding the current research proposals…” Lan Qiren started, clearly considering that distasteful but necessary conversation closed and finished. Nie Huaisang turned his attention to his media feed at that point, because quite frankly if any of the research stuff got far enough to become his problem, then that would mean that Lan Wangji and Wen Qing were slacking in their jobs and he would complain vociferously about it.

Although he did keep half an ear on the conversation, because wow, apparently he’d missed out on an extraordinary source of petty shenanigans by avoiding academia. There were some truly impressive specimens of Ego and Attitude in there.

Which was kind of hilarious. Ego and Attitude had been what he’d expected from Wei Wuxian. After all, superhuman cultivator, and if he’d been running around with a sword he was at least nobility-adjacent, if not nobility himself, and Nie Huaisang knew a bit about the sort of attitudes that had been prevalent among those types – he’d read Romance of the Three Kingdoms, thank you!

Although he’d also read about the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove. Now that he thought about it, a poet with social savvy and artistic skills would fit very neatly into a certain mode of premodern ideas of manliness. What a novel thought!

Although, given that Wei Wuxian was a 186-centimeter swordsman with all the muscles to match and superpowers to boot, and yet he’d opted to threaten Nie Huaisang with the far more terrifying prospect of the wrath of a tiny doctor lady? Manliness didn’t seem to bother him much. He clearly didn’t take himself too seriously, and understood and appreciated alternative means of power.

Nie Huaisang had gone there to tweak noses and get a feel for what he needed to plan for when the news about Wei Wuxian went public. He hadn’t expected to actually like the guy!

Not to mention that while Lan Wangji was amusing to tweak, Wen Yuan’s mix of simultaneous hero worship and conscientious concern all wrapped up in pure teenager this is so awesome!! while fighting so hard to appear mature and cool and unaffected was simply adorable.

Oooh, he’d gotten a response to the email he’d sent. Excellent…

Lan Qiren stood up. “Very well. If that is all…”

“A final point,” Lan Wangji said, and Nie Huaisang turned his attention, if not his eyes, back to the meeting. After their conversation the day before, he thought he knew what this was about.

“I believe Wei Wuxian is ready for a short visit to Caiyi.” Hah, and score! And a good thing he’d tuned back in, because he could see the reflexive huff coming. So…

“That’s definitely a good idea!” he said, jumping on the words before Lan Qiren had a chance to respond. “After all, he can’t acclimate to modern culture until he has a chance to experience it.”

Not to mention that the man desperately needed a chance to immerse himself in modern Mandarin the way real people spoke it. Because while his grasp of the language was phenomenal under the circumstances, it was painfully obvious that he’d learned his speech patterns from Erudition is the Only Option Lan Wangji on one hand and a teenager on the other.

“The more time he has to adjust to the culture shock before he has to face the public, the better,” Nie Mingjue agreed, although Nie Huaisang could feel the raised eyebrow lurking behind his words.

Lan Qiren scowled. “I fail to see the sense in him going to Caiyi as a first introduction, rather than speaking to the project… but it is true that the project researchers have yet to meet their obligations for continued participation.” Huffing, he waved a hand in dismissive permission. “Very well, then. If you are all agreed, then I will leave the specifics to you four,” he declared. “In the meantime, I must speak with Chang Jianguo about his revised research plan…”

By the barely hidden grimace on Wen Qing’s face, revised was probably overly generous. Not to mention the omission of the title “professor” by Lan Qiren of all people. Now Nie Huaisang wished he’d paid a little more attention to the earlier conversation, that must have been an interesting one.

However, this worked very well for his own purposes. So he waited until the door closed solidly behind Lan Qiren, and then looked at the others.

“So!” he said brightly. “What is our actual plan for going public?”

His brother snorted. “I thought you were being way too agreeable.”

Nie Huaisang pouted, waving his phone in the air. “Dage! How can you say that? He did exactly what I asked! He gave us a very neat and tidy plan. Now when people ask – and they will! – why we didn’t say anything, we have a clear, well-planned timeline to point at…”

“And the odds of us making it to the six month mark before something blows up in our faces, let alone three years, were damned slim even before this mess with Su Minshan disappearing and someone meddling, possibly with help from someone inside the project,” Nie Mingjue concluded for him.

“And even if we did somehow make it the full three years, or even six months, we would still need an actual plan for managing the reaction,” Wen Qing sighed, running a hand through short-cropped hair. “And… Lan Qiren doesn’t want to think about that.”

“We already went behind my uncle’s back once,” Lan Wangji said sternly. “I do not wish to make it a habit.”

Nie Huaisang waved the hand holding his phone. “We’re not going behind his back!” he protested, deliberately affecting the most innocently dismayed tone he could. “He did his job, which was to lay out the master plan. Now we’re doing our job, which is filling in the gaps and making contingency plans!”

“One important aspect of which,” Nie Mingjue said grimly, “is that the two of you need to think about how you’re going to handle the explosion when it happens. Because it’s not going to affect just Wei Wuxian. We’re all going to be famous – or infamous – by association. But you two especially so, Doctor Wen, Professor Lan.”

Lan Wangji’s face didn’t move, of course, but Nie Huaisang was starting to get a better feel for him, and he thought the man seemed… nonplussed. Well, that made sense. He was a literature professor. People didn’t get mad mobs of fans excited about old books.

Wen Qing blanched. “A’Yuan…”

Nie Mingjue exhaled heavily. “Meng Yao pulled every copy of the video from our servers and scrubbed the data to be sure. We have it, but only in offline storage. So we should be able to keep Wen Yuan’s involvement relatively quiet, especially since it’s not common knowledge even within the project just how involved he is…”

“But he’s still involved, and having a random high school student as part of this… That’s going to be one of those details the bloodhounds are likely to latch onto, isn’t it.” Wen Qing grimaced.

“And Wen Yuan has been careful, but his friends are not fools,” Lan Wangji added. “It is likely they will deduce his role when they hear the news.”

Ah. Oops. He hadn’t considered that wrinkle, and he should have. He’d seen what teenagers were like with a mystery to solve.

By Nie Mingjue’s grimace, it hadn’t occurred to him, either. “We’ll have to brainstorm that,” he admitted. “At a minimum, we should try to reach out before things go too public; bringing them in on a secret is probably one of the best ways to convince them to keep that secret.”

Ironic that it was the same strategy they were considering for the funding fat cats. But true!

Lan Wangji hesitated. “Is it truly wise for Wei Wuxian to go out in public? There is a risk that he will be recognized.”

Nie Mingjue huffed. “I’m not worried about that. Take away the robes and hide the hair, he’s unrecognizable as Yiling Laozu – all the more so because people know that Yiling Laozu is a body frozen in ice. It’s the same thing we did to let him move around campus: there’s anonymity in being impossible.” He shrugged. “There’s more of a risk that he might be recognized by the protestors, but we can plan around that. And Huaisang is right; the more chance the man has to get acclimated to modern culture, the better his chances of making himself inconspicuous.”

Nie Huaisang had to laugh at that. “Dage. The man is tall, fit, and despite the fact that men do absolutely nothing for me, even I think he’s devastatingly good-looking. Inconspicuous is not going to happen!”

Ooh, he’d definitely scored a Lan Wangji glower there. Which, yes, he’d been aiming for it, but it was also true. And all the more reason for Wei Wuxian to get out of the rarified and secluded environment of the university and meet some actual real people. Among other things, the man was in desperate need of some coaching on how modern flirting and dating worked, or else forget the fans and the politicians – he was likely to have half the city trying to make off with him for the purposes of making out!

At which point Lan Wangji would probably either go on a rampage or keel over from vinegar overdose, and while that would undoubtedly be hilarious, it would also be stressful. No, better to head that off at the pass.

He tapped his phone against his cheek. “Still. There are different ways of standing out. Inconspicuous isn’t going to happen, but fitting in… That, I think he can manage. He does well enough already,” thanks in no small part to aforementioned lack of Attitude, they really were lucky that the man was so very adaptable, “so if we can find him some proper clothes, he’ll be able to pass. The Caiyi trip will be good practice; there are so many people there that even if he does slip, it’ll get lost in the general crowd.”

And give him the opportunity to arrange fitting of a different sort, because Wei Wuxian really did need real clothes. The black and red ensemble that Wen Yuan and Lan Wangji had arranged was excellent, very striking… but striking was the key word. It deliberately emphasized the fact that Wei Wuxian was Yiling Laozu in the living flesh. Which would be very useful when the time came for going public, but rather less so for trying to avoid public notice.

For that matter, even after they went public, Wei Wuxian was going to need less flashy clothes if he wanted to go out without being mobbed, the same as any other celebrity.

And right now the only practical everyday clothing the man had was clearly coming straight out of Lan Wangji’s wardrobe. And while Nie Huaisang would grant that Lan Wangji’s little boyfriend shirt fetish did make for an acceptable look – especially since the modifications worked to make it more Casual Student than Buttoned Up Professor – he was going to need better options when the cameras started rolling!

Lan Wangji’s suspicions clearly were not eased – rude! – but he turned to look at Wen Qing.

She pursed her lips. “Avoid any form of public transit,” she said bluntly. “He’s responded very well to the vaccines so far, but there’s no point to taking chances with that level of concentrated exposure. I’d recommend avoiding crowded conditions, period; if you’re going downtown, avoid the rush hours as much as possible.”

Ah, good to know; that was going to dictate certain scheduling decisions.

“Other than that, be careful about anything to eat or drink; I’d recommend avoiding street stalls entirely for the time being. Outside that?” She huffed, spreading her hands. “It’s a risk, but at a certain point you have to take risks. I think he’s ready for this one, if we’re careful.”

Nie Mingjue shrugged when Lan Wangji looked at him. “Pretty much what she said. Security-wise… well, locked in a vault is safe, technically, but it’s no way to live.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “The biggest issue from my perspective is that if anything does go wrong, there’s not much I can do to help. Sending any of my people is just going to draw attention to you, and avoiding that is probably your best bet.”

Nie Huaisang tapped the edge of his phone case against the tip of his nose, conveniently hiding his expression. Good; things were going in the right direction. Now it was time to needle them a bit, because one thing he had learned about academics: they could talk a topic to death and then completely forget to act on it.

So. “And might I suggest that in case anything does go wrong, you make sure Wei Wuxian knows what to do? Since, after all, the final call on this is his, not ours.” He gave them a dry look. “Even if we’re still forgetting to invite him to these little planning sessions.”

Ah, that prompted some sharp looks – but also, importantly, chagrined ones. Good. Because now that Nie Huaisang had met the man? Well. Wei Wuxian was going along with them for now, but he wasn’t biddable in any sense of the term. If they kept talking around him, then sooner or later he was going to take the decision out of their hands.

And while the chaos would be amusing, cleaning the resulting mess up would be work. Pass!

That… had stung, Wen Qing admitted to herself, holding Wen Yuan’s wrist. And she was self-aware enough to admit to herself that Nie Huaisang’s words had stung because he was right. She’d been so preoccupied with protecting Wei Wuxian from impatient and entitled researchers who would find it all too easy to ignore the man’s agency and humanity… and she’d failed to notice that she herself had gotten into the habit of making decisions on his behalf, rather than letting Wei Wuxian make his own choices about the risks he was willing to take.

The irony left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. Yes, in the early stages that level of intervention had been necessary, given the communication barriers and how little Wei Wuxian knew about his situation. But that was not the case anymore. At this point, Wei Wuxian was fully capable of expressing his opinion, and knowledgeable enough to have opinions. And yet, it was so dangerously easy to slip back into the habit of leaving him out of the conversation.

Which was even less forgivable now that the tables had turned and he was advising them as a recognized expert in his own field.

A callused finger tapped her nose lightly but sharply – not even enough to sting, but so unexpected that her wandering thoughts scattered as her attention suddenly narrowed to that point of contact. “Enough,” Wei Wuxian said wryly. “You are not focusing. And if you do not focus, what is the point?”

Wen Qing huffed, but she did have to grant his point; she would have said the same to any medical student who let their thoughts wander during a diagnostic test. Even if the method was… different. Sighing, she released Wen Yuan’s arm—

And then flexed her fingers in surprise, trying to shake out the odd sensation. They weren’t cramped, exactly, or numb, but…

“Like pins and needles except that it doesn’t actually hurt?” Wen Yuan asked sympathetically, also shaking out his hand.

Wen Qing blinked. That… was actually a fairly accurate description of the strange feeling. As if her bones and veins and nerves were buzzing ever so faintly.

“Good!” Wei Wuxian said brightly. “It should not hurt! If it hurts, then you are doing something wrong and you should stop.”

“Good to know,” Wen Qing said dryly. Because she’d been making her way through some of the folklore sources that Lan Wangji had provided, and there were definitely some practices referenced that absolutely crossed the line to outright self-harm. She had no interest in exploring or endorsing those without serious evidence otherwise!

Wen Qing drew in a deep breath, looking at her hands, and made herself admit that it wasn’t the esoteric details of what people two thousand years earlier had considered medicinal that shook her. While her own education had focused on Western medicine, she was familiar with the basics of traditional Chinese medicine, and she’d learned some of its history; she’d heard of the Three Pulses and reading a patient’s qi. And she had been studying more, in the hopes of better understanding the physiology of what Wei Wuxian did…

But there was a world of difference between reading theoretical tracts and discussing techniques, and holding her young cousin’s wrist and feeling energy flow.

A large part of her insisted that the sensation was, had to be, psychosomatic, her mind imposing an imagined sensation based on expectation. After all, it was one thing to accept that the man who had somehow survived fifteen hundred years frozen in ice might have abilities that were superhuman or even simply magical. It was another thing entirely to think she might attempt it for herself.

That little shake of Wen Yuan’s hand confirming that he’d also felt what her logical mind still wanted, on some level, to think she’d imagined… Well. That shook her more than she’d expected.

Still. In a way, that was the point of cultivation, was it not – that anyone could seek to cultivate their own body, mind and spirit beyond whatever they were born with, through hard work, education and discipline.

And she was determined to master at least the basic concepts. Cultivation represented an entirely new branch of medical knowledge, not least of which were entirely new – or at least long forgotten – techniques for diagnosis and treatment. Including the diagnosis and treatment of ailments that had also gone overlooked and forgotten, like the resentful energy exposure they’d already discovered. What other dangers were there, overlooked or misdiagnosed because the underlying principles weren’t understood?

So Wen Qing breathed through the unsettled feeling of her world shifting on its axis, and carried on with a more standard exam. Which Wen Yuan needed anyway, since he was set on trying to cultivate – which, based on what Wei Wuxian had explained so far, was physically rigorous on top of any other effects.

“Which means I want to see you on a regular basis,” she told the boy briskly. “You’re young and in good shape, but right now we know almost nothing about the physiology of cultivation. I want to monitor your progress. So expect to be back here at least once a month.”

At the same time, she wanted to pull on her hair and scream in frustration, because Wen Yuan was her cousin! She was his legal guardian! They had no business making her his primary physician, especially with regards to what was essentially medical research!

And yet, what else could they do? There was no way to assign a different physician to Wen Yuan without also informing them about Wei Wuxian. And that particular can of worms was already on the verge of tipping over at any moment; adding any more people to the mix would only make things more precarious, when she already had the skills needed.

We all need to have statements prepared for when we go public, or we’re going to be eaten alive by our own academic peers. And they’d deserve it.

Well. Something she could worry about later.

Finished with Wen Yuan, she turned back to Wei Wuxian, who had claimed a seat on one of the other unused exam beds in the clinic, watching with interest. She’d already finished his physical – something that they were still doing weekly, although now that she’d been able to take blood tests and assess his antibody levels, and now that they were fairly certain that there would be no acute crisis from the aftereffects of his freezing for fifteen hundred years, there wasn’t really a need for such close monitoring. But he’d expressed his own interest in knowing how modern physiological science understood the effects of cultivation on the body.

So, once Wen Yuan’s exam was done, she reached into the bag she’d set on the desk and pulled out the textbook from her long-past introduction to anatomy course. “Here,” she said briskly, holding it out. “If you and Lan Wangji are serious about this training guide business, you’re going to want to make sure you’re using the correct medical terms.”

The man’s eyes lit up. Well, Wen Yuan had mentioned that he loved books. Accepting it, he immediately began thumbing through the pages – only to stop almost immediately, when he found the first anatomical drawing.

Wen Qing had wondered how he would react to that. The people of his era hadn’t lacked anatomical knowledge; she knew from her study of the history of medicine that as early as the first decade of the common era, emperors had been authorizing the dissection of executed criminals for the purposes of advancing medical knowledge, which implied that the idea had existed even before then. But medical art was its own genre, and the conventions had changed rather substantially. Particularly with the advent of high-quality color printing.

Wei Wuxian studied the drawing with intent interest, then looked at her with a grin. “Would you like to help with the manual?” he asked.

Wen Qing blinked. “I’m not an artist,” she told him.

Wei Wuxian huffed and waved a hand. “The art, I can do,” he countered. “But you have the knowledge. People have learned many things, it would be stupid to ignore them.”

Wen Qing hesitated, uncharacteristically. She wanted to say yes, she realized. This was new and fascinating. And, more practically, if she wanted to learn more about the medical side of cultivation – both understanding it and utilizing it – then wouldn’t it make sense to be involved in the training?

Still.

“I’m surprised there are no manuals that survived,” she commented. “Didn’t anyone write them?”

He snorted, openly amused. “Did anyone write them? Yes. Many. But were they useful?” He shook his head, smiling ruefully.

“Ah.” Yes, that would be an issue. How often had she and other medical professionals torn their hair out over the never-ending proliferation of medical misinformation and ineffective or even actively harmful advice in self-help books and internet blogs?

And cultivation promised not only good health, but also power and the allure of secret knowledge given only to a select few. Of course there would have been an underbelly of charlatans feeding on the hopeful.

Still. “How did the sects train new cultivators, then? Surely they had some texts.”

Wei Wuxian had been flipping between the illustrations of the nervous and circulatory systems, obviously comparing the two. Possibly as a reference for drawing the meridians they’d discussed; going by his reaction when he’d seen the diagrams handed down from the Tang Dynasty, knowledge of the pressure points and energy channels had become decidedly skewed over time.

At her question, however, he reeled in mock shock, hands clasped dramatically against his chest. “To write clan secrets? So that those they did not like might be able to find them and read them?”

Forsooth! might not yet be in the man’s vocabulary, but he certainly conveyed the sentiment all the same.

Still chuckling, Wei Wuxian tapped the pen he’d been using to sketch notes with against his cheek. “Some people did write,” he granted. “They usually wrote about… hm. Ideas, not techniques. The Lan, they wrote lots, but the library burned in the war. They saved some, but only some.”

Wen Qing grimaced. She wasn’t a fool; she knew perfectly well that war and the rise and fall of rulers tended to result in the destruction of anything that might threaten the new leaders, or that made for a convenient scapegoat at the time. It was a pattern that had repeated over and over around the world. Add in the push to standardize and centralize medical practices – something that had happened multiple times through China’s long history… Well. All it would take was the choice to favor one text – and by that act mark all others as heterodox and deviant – and a great deal of knowledge would be lost all too quickly.

It might not even take anything so deliberate. The articles Lan Wangji had sent her to read were full of references to texts that no longer survived except in the form of quotes and excerpts and passing references in other texts, and that held true for everything from medical treatises to government records to plays and poetry. Add in the precarious nature of secret teaching intentionally restricted to a small group…

Perhaps she should be more surprised that they’d retained as much knowledge as they had.

While they’d been talking, Wen Yuan had leaned over to look at the sketch Wei Wuxian had been working on. The boy blinked. “Those are… qi meridians?”

“Hm.” Wei Wuxian pursed his lips. “The simple ones, yes. But I was not a healer. That there were much… smaller ones? Sneakier ones? That, I know – but to make a map of them will be tricky.”

Intrigued, Wen Qing looked over as well; they’d figured out over the weeks that if Wei Wuxian did something in public, he didn’t mind an audience, and would even happily answer questions. She had not been at all surprised to learn that the man had been a teacher.

She was also aware that he was more than clever enough to talk circles around anything that he didn’t want to tell them, without ever giving away that there was something he wasn’t saying. So she could be fairly certain that she wasn’t imposing on anything that he didn’t want to share by looking.

Impressively, he’d already sketched a reasonable approximation of the anatomy model; he’d even lightly sketched in the central nervous system and the major nerve branches, and the major veins and arteries. Far clearer were the lines radiating outward from three nodes: the forehead, the chest, and the navel, with the last plainly acting as the primary source feeding into the other two.

Wen Yuan’s finger hovered over it. “That’s the third dantian, right? Where the golden core is.”

“Where it will be, for you,” Wei Wuxian corrected with an amused quirk of his eyebrow, and Wen Yuan grinned sheepishly and tucked his hand behind his back.

Wen Qing pursed her lips. “If that’s where it is, then why didn’t it show up in the X-rays?” she huffed.

She’d finally gotten the chance to take those just a few days ago; the process had been slow because, as with the vaccines, she’d wanted to be sure Wei Wuxian fully understood what she was asking for – and, Wei Wuxian being Wei Wuxian, how the process worked and what it could be used for – and frankly speaking, the vaccines had been far more important.

At least he’d responded to the idea of X-rays with the same curiosity and interest that he had the vaccines and every other oddity of the modern world. Wen Yuan’s book on great inventions had included a sidebar on the social reaction to seeing the skeleton of a living human before the use of X-rays in medicine had normalized the concept. I have seen my death, indeed.

Granted, given Wen Yuan’s comments about cultivation and ghosts, it was possible that to cultivators the face of death was less a thing of atavistic horror and more a necessary business acquaintance… but she had her doubts. Wei Wuxian was incredibly intelligent and adaptable, and she had no intentions of taking that for granted.

The man hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head. “An X-ray is to show what is hard within the body, yes? Bone and teeth and metal?”

Wen Qing nodded; she’d mentioned that last to him because she’d still been worried about that arrow wound – even more so when he’d admitted to having no real memory of getting it beyond the last few flashes of vague sensations before he’d woken out of the thawing ice on a lab table.

Part of her had to laugh at that; Yiling Laozu had been called the Chinese Ötzi so frequently in the international media, and it turned out that the parallel extended all the way to the final events that had led to their preservation in the ice… with the significant difference that Wei Wuxian hadn’t been dead, not that the world knew that yet.

The X-rays had, at least, laid one nagging worry to rest; there’d been no sign of metal fragments in Wei Wuxian’s body, either from that arrow or any other old wounds.

“Then maybe that is the answer,” Wei Wuxian suggested. “The core is of qi, it is not hard like bone. Does an X-ray show fire?”

That… was an interesting question, actually. She had no idea if anyone had ever tried it. Although that did raise the question of trying to detect a core using MRI or other more energy-oriented methods.

Although if it turned out that a core was somehow radioactive, she would be having words with the universe.

Wen Yuan was looking at the diagram Wei Wuxian had sketched again. “So how long does it take to form a core, anyway?” he asked, simply radiating that he was asking purely out of innocent academic interest, no ulterior motives here, no sir!

Wen Qing huffed her amusement, raising a droll eyebrow at him, because that hadn’t even been subtle.

Credit where it was due, he met her expression and just stepped up the innocent sparkle a bit. Someone had been taking inspiration from Wen Ning.

Wei Wuxian laughed and poked Wen Yuan in the forehead. “That depends on who! You are still building your foundation. That is first!”

Wen Yuan held his innocent front a moment longer, then smiled sheepishly. “I know… I’m just excited about getting to the cool stuff!”

That got him a mock-scolding tongue click as Wei Wuxian wagged a finger at him. “You are opening your meridians and preparing your dantian. Water cannot flow if there is nowhere for it to go!”

“When does the change happen? From physical training and meditation to… powers?” Wen Qing asked. And then flushed, well aware that she sounded like an impatient xianxia fan herself. But it was something she’d wondered about for a while.

Wei Wuxian blinked, looking genuinely nonplussed for a moment. “There… is no change?” he said after a moment, tone hesitant the way it became when he wasn’t sure he’d correctly understood a question. “Qi is not a thing that is other. You cultivate – body, breath, spirit. Your cultivation grows, it does not change. To form a golden core – it is an important step. But it is one step of many, before and after.”

Interesting. That seemed to describe a far more organic process than depicted in some of the folklore…

But then again, quite a bit of modern xianxia, with its stages of core development and secret techniques, seemed very much to have been built on the same mentality that enjoyed “power levels” and a straightforward idea of “strength” as a numerical matter that could be lined up one against the other without any concern for circumstances or specific skill sets. It wasn’t hard to imagine that such mentalities would have existed in the distant past as well, with the same urge to break the world up into neat categories and stages.

Wen Yuan drooped slightly, not exactly pouting but with a definitely woebegone air. “So… more handstands,” he said with a rueful smile.

Wei Wuxian grinned at him. “Yes. The Lan style suits you, but strength and balance are needed first.”

Wen Yuan sighed, a little more dramatically than Wen Qing thought the situation warranted – he was a xianxia fan, he should have known what he was getting himself into when he’d asked for training – and then tilted his head curiously. “Wait, Lan style? I thought you were Jiang…?”

“Mmm…” Wei Wuxian shrugged. “The Lan path – that is to be… unmoving, not falling… flat? …when much is changing. It is… like a mountain.” Suddenly he snapped his fingers, face brightening. “Ah! It is being still. It suits you.” He wobbled his hand. “The Jiang way is like a river. It is moving. To find what is hard and to try anyway. It might suit too… but for you, the Lan way is the better start.”

“But you can learn other styles? It doesn’t mess up your cultivation?” Wen Yuan asked, clearly fascinated.

Wei Wuxian laughed. “Many clans would say, would! But no. The style is a tool. But the foundation, that is discipline.”

Wen Qing hummed thoughtfully, considering that. If discipline was the core of cultivation… well. That would explain why Lan Wangji and Wen Yuan both passed muster as potential candidates for training. Lan Wangji, at thirty-five, was well beyond the supposed age limit for forming a golden core – assuming such a limit actually existed, rather than being the product of the human tendency to assume that special abilities were exclusive to a select minority in some way. But he had achieved a ridiculous level of academic accomplishment for his relatively young age, with two doctorates and truly impressive number of articles published despite also shouldering a respectable teaching load. And Wen Yuan was maintaining a successful life as a student while effectively pursuing university-level private studies. And both of them meditated regularly and maintained active fitness regimens.

Although it did also explain why Wei Wuxian was so insistent on Wen Yuan’s physical training. Besides keeping the boy busy while they thoroughly checked and rechecked the translation of the manual Wei Wuxian was making… well. Wen Yuan was fit, but not an athlete. If Wei Wuxian was serious about there being no clear dividing line between physical training and superhuman strength, that implied that a very high level of baseline fitness was a must.

Which meant that if she was going to be serious about exploring the medical side of cultivation… She had confidence in her mental discipline, but she should probably step up her workout routine.

Wei Wuxian feigned a poke at Wen Yuan’s stomach, grinning when the boy squeaked and pulled away reflexively. “The starting is the most important,” the cultivator told him. “The foundation needs to be right. You do not want qi to flow the wrong way!”

Attention sharpening, Wen Qing leaned forward. “And what happens if it does?” she asked intently.

Wei Wuxian blinked, apparently taken aback, but then nodded slightly. “Ah. For Wen Yuan… a foundation that is made wrong can affect roots and meridians. It would limit the growing of the core and his cultivation.”

Not so different from other forms of martial arts, or any other physical skills; a bad start would create habits and patterns that would have repercussions for the student’s ability to progress at more advanced levels.

She gave the man a stern look. “And you?” she pressed. “What happens if something goes wrong with your qi?”

“Ah.” He smiled crookedly. “For a person with a golden core… for qi to lose balance is bad. If… hmmm. Anger that is not controlled, or sadness, or to use qi in a wrong way – those are the causes that happen most. If it is too strong, or for a long time. It can cause… zǒuhuǒ rùmó.” He picked up the notebook and flipped to the back, which he used as a scratchpad when he was unable to find an adequate circumlocution for the concept he wanted, and quickly scrawled four characters.

Wen Yuan blanched. “So… qi deviations are a real thing?”

Wei Wuxian nodded. “They can be.”

Wen Qing narrowed her eyes and picked up her tablet, opening her note-taking app. “What are the symptoms? And how is it treated?”

Fortunately, symptoms and treatment were both terms the man had learned during the crash course he’d gotten about vaccines. “Symptoms…” He pursed his lips, clearly considering his available vocabulary again. “One sees enemies where there are no enemies. One thinks that people they trust cannot be trusted.”

“Paranoia,” Wen Qing translated.

Wei Wuxian glanced at the characters as Wen Yuan wrote the word out, then pursed his lips and nodded, clearly noting the term for future reference. “That is one face of unbalanced qi. Another is… hm. Focus without control. Thinking that cannot move from one thought.” He tilted his head. “Also, to become easily angry, at small things, or things that before did not cause anger, and to not be able to control the anger.”

Then he huffed, smiling ruefully. “That is unbalanced qi. Zuohou rumo… one sees things that are not there. Everything is an enemy one must fight and destroy.”

So. A slow degeneration of self-control, with an acute crisis similar to a psychotic breakdown – Wen Qing made a mental note to review the literature on medical conditions that affected mental states, and to look for a psychiatrist to consult once the project opened up again.

One thing was bothering her, though. “How do you tell the difference between that and mercury poisoning? The effects of cinnabar,” she asked.

Assuming he even knew about that – although from what she’d read, the deleterious effects of refined cinnabar had been well-known by physicians even as early as the Qin dynasty. It was just that some claimed that the death of the body was part of the refinement of the spirit… and it was also possibly a convenient tool for eliminating people they disliked.

Wei Wuxian exhaled explosively. “Ah. You know about that. Good.”

At Wen Qing’s startled blink, he smiled wryly. “Cinnabar – it is powerful and useful if used correctly and it should not be used by anyone who does not have a golden core!”

She raised her eyebrows. “A golden core can counter the effects of cinnabar?”

He shrugged, wobbling his hand. “Some. It is better to be very careful! And,” he added with a crooked smile, “it is expensive!”

Shaking his head, he waved a hand. “But you asked about differences. The first difference is that the sickness of cinnabar… mercury poisoning, it is called now?” At her nod, he continued, “Mercury poisoning causes a changing in the mind. A person becomes… not as who they are. And the changing does not stop. The ground of the spirit becomes water.” Raising his other hand, he added, “Qi deviation… it is in the word, zuohou. The ground of the spirit burns. The person does not become not that person, but too much, too strong, without control.” He smiled wryly again. “And the wanting to destroy everything. That is sometimes there, too.”

That is there, too – as if the thought of someone with Wei Wuxian’s strength and abilities in a blind berserker rage wasn’t terrifying to even contemplate. “What about treatment?” Wen Qing pressed. Because if that was the outcome of an acute case, then far better to handle the underlying problems before reaching that point!

Wei Wuxian shrugged. “The problem is qi that is not balanced. To treat it is to make the qi balanced again. But why the qi is not balanced can be many things!” He sighed. “Often, it is a… heart-demon? That is a thought or feeling that pulls qi and mind in ways that are not good. And for that… well. Sometimes a person cannot face that, or will not.”

Psychological problems creating a feedback loop with cultivation? That… made a great deal of sense, actually. Mental health and physical health were deeply connected, and from the way Wei Wuxian talked about cultivation as a holistic process involving body and mind together… well.

She wondered what he would make of modern psychology. The simple fact that he had a concept for psychological disorders that accounted for the intrusive thoughts and unbalanced emotions while recognizing their internal nature was promising. Then again, it might cut too close to home; there was something in his bearing that reminded her of doctors explaining diseases that had affected their own family. It was possible he’d known people who’d suffered from such “heart demons.”

He’d lived through war, upheaval, and had whip scars on his back. It wasn’t just possible, it was practically inevitable.

“And a qi deviation?” she asked; conversations about the possible role of psychological counseling in cultivation training could wait for the moment, after all. At the moment, her main concern was grasping the scope of potential problems.

Wei Wuxian huffed. “Well. If another cultivator can help, sometimes one can help the qi to balance. But it is not easy. It is like helping a stopped heart to start again. It might work. It might not.” His lip quirked humorlessly. “Except that to start a stopped heart does not usually mean a danger that the helping person’s heart will stop too. And, of course, if the qi deviation is bad, then it is dangerous to get so close!”

Well. That was a lot to take in. Although it was fascinating that apparently he was familiar with some version of CPR. Still, she was more concerned about the fact that apparently a qi deviation could be contagious.

Wen Yuan had been quiet through their exchange, watching them both with wide eyes. Now he gulped audibly. “And… qi deviations can happen when someone’s… really upset?” he asked, obviously trying not to be too blatant with his concerned look at Wei Wuxian and not really succeeding. “That seems… really dangerous.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled, patting the boy’s head with a wry smile. “Dangerous? It can be!” he admitted. “But so is a dam on a river if it breaks. That does not stop us from building dams. Dams are useful. And so is cultivating.”

Wen Qing blinked and hummed thoughtfully. It was an interesting analogy, and one that made sense – particularly in light of China’s history of devastating floods from the Yellow River, and the potential consequences if something like the Three Gorges Dam were ever to fail. And on a more human scale…

Well. How many would-be athletes had had their careers cut short by training accidents or even just the mental stress of trying to do too much, too fast? How much higher would the stakes be for the promise of superhuman abilities and even potential immortality?

Exhaling slowly, she deliberately clenched her shoulders, then released them, forcing the accumulated tension out. She understood Wen Yuan’s worries. She’d been concerned enough about the possible effects of emotional shock and grief on Wei Wuxian’s immune system. And who was to say that the reality of his effective exile into the distant future might not still come crashing down at the worst possible moment?

On the other hand, he’d weathered a war and the deaths of many people he knew already, and he’d come through the first and most shocking part of his unexpected trip to the future with his mind intact and hopefully no lingering cultivation-related consequences. In hindsight, it might have been a good thing that he’d figured out the time displacement himself, as a gradual realization, rather than having it dropped on him out of nowhere.

If he’d survived all that… Well. Between that and the man’s overall temperament and resilience, she was willing to tentatively assume that short of truly exceptional circumstances, qi deviation would not be a major worry. However.

She gave the man a stern look. “If it takes a cultivator to pull someone out of a qi deviation, then there is no one who can help if it happens to you. I expect you to be careful. If you get overwhelmed, tap out and give yourself time to recover.” She raised her eyebrows. “You’ve agreed to teach Wen Yuan. I hold you to that. Which means you need to be there for him.”

On Wei Wuxian’s other side, Wen Yuan made a face, the classic grumpy moue of offended teen pride… but he didn’t actually complain, which meant he understood what she was getting at: in a crisis, sometimes the knowledge of being responsible for more than yourself could make the difference between survival or succumbing.

For that matter, from the wry smile and surprisingly serious bow that he sketched in her direction, she suspected Wei Wuxian understood that just as well.

Wen Qing sighed. “Well. You’re both in good health, so we should be done here. I do want to check in again after the trip to Caiyi, Wei Wuxian. Potential for exposure aside, you’re going to be dealing with a lot more people than you’ve seen in quite a while, as I understand it. I do understand the reasons, and it’s probably a good idea, but it’s going to be stressful for you.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled ruefully. “Yes,” he admitted. “Caiyi is… bigger than it was.”

That was probably an understatement. She suspected that Wei Wuxian didn’t even have a frame of reference sufficient to really understand the population density of a modern city. And that didn’t even get into things like skyscrapers, shopping centers, traffic…

Wen Yuan cleared his throat carefully. “So… I had a thought about that?” When they looked at him, he fidgeted for a moment, then said, “We already decided I’m not going. So… what if I gave you my phone?”

Wei Wuxian blinked. “Phone?” he echoed, and then brightened when Wen Yuan held his up. “Ah! That, I have seen before. It is for…” He hesitated. “Emailing? Speaking?”

Wen Yuan grinned sheepishly. “I mean… yes? Although these days they’re more like really small computers, you wouldn’t believe what some people do with them… But this way, if something goes wrong and you get lost or separated from everyone, you’ll have a way to contact us.” He looked at Wen Qing. “If you think that’s okay? Nie Huaisang thought it was a good idea…”

He would. Which didn’t mean he was wrong. “I think it’s a worthwhile precaution,” she said.

In fact, given how mobile Wei Wuxian was, and their concerns about security, it was probably time to think about getting him his own phone anyway. She just wasn’t sure how to navigate the issues of a potentially trackable digital footprint.

There was also the minor detail that once Wei Wuxian had a phone, it would be only a matter of time before they finally had to introduce him to the wild jungle that was the internet and social media. And she didn’t think anyone was ready for that.

At least he didn’t know that the name Yiling Laozu was attached to him. Because if he did… well. The man probably didn’t really want to know what sort of very graphic literature had gotten attached to the imagined identity of what people had assumed was a frozen corpse.

“Make sure to show him how to send his location,” she told Wen Yuan. “That’s probably going to be the most important part.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. “Send… a location?”

Wen Yuan nodded eagerly. “So that the other person can see a map showing where to find you! She’s right, that would be really useful…”

Slowly, Wei Wuxian began to grin. “So. What else can a ‘phone’ do?”

OMAKE:

“To change a ward so that its effect becomes something else – that is not a thing that happens by accident.”
Wei Wuxian, thinking: I of all people should know!

Nie Mingjue shows up at the door to pick up Nie Huaisang. “How did it go?”
LWJ: “I have witnessed the birth of a monster.” Beat. “Wen Yuan is making popcorn.”

LEXICON:

Zǒuhuǒ rùmó (走火入魔), literally “catch fire and demons enter,” but usually translated in English as “qi deviation.”

NOTES:

Amusingly, I didn’t actually plan to make Wei Wuxian’s circumstances parallel Ötzi’s so closely – the arrow wound was meant to be a callback to the arrow at the Pledge Conference in Nightless City (and the Qiongqi Pass ambush – as well as ye olde “what tactic is most likely to actually work on an experienced and powerful cultivator?”). But once the parallel clicked, I had to call myself out on it!

Musical cultivation: based on what we see at Mount Dafan, what song is played doesn’t matter so much as the emotional energy evoked by the music, at least for Wei Wuxian’s guidao. On Mount Dafan, he realizes that in his urgency to save Jin Ling and the others, he’d made the music too intense, so he plays Wangxian because he finds it calming. The same thing happens at Nightless City – he projected too much of his fury in the music and couldn’t dial it back in time when he saw Jiang Yanli.

(It probably didn’t help that it was Nightless City and therefore the dead he summoned were likely Wen disciples and civilians killed in the fall of the city, which would mean they would have had grudges and been resistant to stopping! Which, as I note in my Bitter Plants, Sweet Fruit fic, was probably something Jin Guangshan was counting on…)

So here, I’m playing with the idea that Lan musical cultivation is designed around specific pieces with set effects – stable and reliable but relatively inflexible – while Wei Wuxian’s is based on empathic connection, flexible and powerful but requiring greater personal control and engagement.

Regarding the Gusu Lan lectures: first, as I mentioned previously, they’re actually the Lan Qiren lectures. The novel is very clear that the kids aren’t being sent to the Lan sect, they’re being sent to Lan Qiren specifically… because he has a reputation for hammering rambunctious boys into Gentlemen: “The Gusu Lan Clan had a great and famous old veteran named Lan Qiren, who the cultivation world widely considered to possess three special characteristics: traditionalism, inflexibility, and the ability to produce brilliant students through his strict instruction. Though the first two points led most to keep him at a respectful distance, and some to secretly dislike him, the last caused many to use every method at their wits’ disposal to send their children to him to receive his teachings. The Lan Clan had produced many outstanding disciples under his hand, and even children who had started as useless pieces of dog excrement were able to at least look respectable once they had studied in his classroom for one or two years. Exhibiting an incomparable improvement in bearing and etiquette, the children often moved their parents to tears when they were finally reunited.” (Fanyiyi translation)

Note that last bit. “Improvement in bearing and etiquette.” Now throw in the detail that outside one or two gotcha questions when he’s trying to wrong-foot WWX the first day, everything we hear about them learning in his class is history and manners and genealogy. Wei Wuxian even lampshades it during the Mount Dafan arc!

So. My read on that? Those lectures aren’t about learning cultivation in terms of a spiritual magic system. They’re an etiquette and comportment boot camp. (An ineffective one, at that, given the results we see.)

It’s actually a very elegant bit of foreshadowing: this is a setting where appearance and making the right noises – and more often just being the Right Sort of Person – means far more than actual merits. Along with the hint that reputation is not reality, given that we’re told Lan Qiren is supposed to be this great teacher and then the rest of the chapter thoroughly shows that he’s anything but.

(Fun aside: I’m pretty sure the gotcha question about defining the differences between mo and gui and yao and such is also a bit of foreshadowing, pointing out that the difference between modao and guidao is actually a relevant one!)

Also, no, Wei Wuxian was not kicked out of the lectures. His punishment for fighting was kneeling for hours. He chooses to leave after that, at Jiang Cheng’s suggestion.

Speaking of, Jiang Yanli’s engagement? Was not broken because Wei Wuxian punched Jin Zixuan – if that were the case, then Jin Guangshan would have been the one to demand it broken. Jiang Fengmian is the one who breaks it, because of Jin Zixuan’s behavior. In essence, Jiang Fengmian is backing up Wei Wuxian’s decision to punch Jin Zixuan. There’s a very good meta on Tumblr regarding the social dynamics involved in that fight: https://moonbelowsea.tumblr.com/post/694512776241102848/mdzs-analyzing-the-cloud-recesses-lectures-brawl

Long story short? Wei Wuxian didn’t break the engagement by punching Jin Zixuan. Jin Zixuan is the one whose behavior is responsible for the breaking of the engagement. Wei Wuxian simply made it impossible for people to continue conveniently overlooking Jin Zixuan’s misbehavior. Hm. Does this sound familiar…?

Also, regarding Wei Wuxian loving books? Canon, he recognizes the Thousand Holes Curse from his time browsing the Lan library. Likewise, any reference to other texts in any research he did in the Burial Mounds would have to be from memory – he had no access to reference sources or even any notes he might have made before that!

And I have to admit… even with qiankun bags, how much of the Lan library could they really have saved? I suspect that a lot of the archives in the main story time period were actually the result of an active collection effort after the war…

As for the whole “cultivation is organic in development, there’s no clear dividing line between human and superhuman” thing… Wei Wuxian, sans core, manages to move faster than Lan Wangji, is able to draw a cultivator’s bow, survives being eviscerated, and is able to throw an arrow, by hand, accurately, with the same force as aforementioned cultivator’s bow. And nowhere is it ever indicated that guidao involves physical enhancement, given that every time we see him use it, he does so externally. I’d say that in MDZS, at least, there’s no hard line marking what you can and can’t do with or without a core, at least in terms of physical strength and endurance!

(Well. To be honest, I also suspect that a lot of it is that MXTX tends to be a bit handwavy on the specifics of how the magic (sic) system actually works. Wei Wuxian being able to do those things appealed to the Rule of Cool, so he could do them!)

…although I couldn’t quite resist taking a potshot at “power levels” and ye olde “but who is Stronger” mentality…

My headcanon for the Lan sword style is that it emphasizes stability and a strong root, while the Jiang style emphasizes agility and awareness of surroundings – very necessary for people who have to fight on boats and therefore can’t rely on stable ground to root themselves with! (And interestingly, that would mean both forms emphasize strength and balance, but in very different ways!)

One of the reasons that I don’t buy the idea that Wei Wuxian’s guidao is inherently harmful is the fact that we’re shown a case of someone corrupted by resentful energy: Nie Mingjue. And nothing about Wei Wuxian’s behavior matches what we see there. In fact, despite the popular trope in fandom of treating Wei Wuxian during the Burial Mounds settlement period as a hot mess, when I read that part he actually comes off as happier and more emotionally settled than he has been since the fall of Lotus Pier – and arguably more than we’ve ever seen him, save for after his revival. It’s particularly notable that the Wens become less afraid of him over time – the exact opposite of the pattern we see with Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang. The only place where Wei Wuxian’s mental stability is ever in doubt is the extremely short period between the ambush at Qiongqi Pass to the pledge conference at Nightless City, and given the endless cascade of everything going horribly wrong and the back to back to back tragedies and betrayals and traumas he gets hit with, all of his reactions are perfectly understandable during that mess, no supernatural “corruption” needed.

Also? It really is remarkable how close “deterioration from resentful energy” (as evidenced by Nie Mingjue, etc.) really does resemble the effects of mercury poisoning… Given the extensive use of cinnabar in Chinese history, especially as a prestigious material, I suspect that’s not an accident!

Chapter Text

Lan Wangji drew in a slow, careful breath, and forced his hands to ease their grip on the steering wheel until sensation returned to his fingertips. Which did not help with the tightness in his jaw from clenched teeth, but… it was a start, at least.

He did understand why Nie Mingjue had been adamant about taking a car. The bus, of course, had never been a viable option; there was simply too much risk of exposure – not only to disease, but to recognition. There were more than a few protesters who rode the buses regularly.

And if Lan Wangji had doubted Nie Mingjue’s grim suspicion that someone was egging the protesters on… the fact that they were still going on after more than two months was not reassuring; at a minimum, he would have expected local officials to intervene in the name of public order by now. And if there was someone watching the project – possibly the same someone who had arranged for the break-in the night they’d moved Wei Wuxian out…

Well. Public transit to and from the university… did not feel as safe as it once had.

And while taxis or DiDi were technically an option, on reflection he did have to agree that Wei Wuxian would be better served with the chance to experience an automobile in private, to let him react and ask what would surely be a myriad of questions freely, without simultaneously dealing with a driver who would be his first close encounter with someone who was not informed as to Wei Wuxian’s identity.

Lan Wangji even understood – reluctantly – that Meng Yao and Nie Zonghui were both occupied with the search for Su Minshan, looking for clues about the meddler, and a recent uptick in protestor activity, and thus were unavailable to drive. And quite frankly, he did not trust Nie Huaisang behind the wheel. Even knowing perfectly well that the man had likely deliberately cultivated that impression with the express intent of getting out of such responsibilities.

Except that now he was realizing that his driving left Nie Huaisang in the back seat with Wei Wuxian, and he trusted that arrangement even less.

Not to mention that it meant Nie Huaisang got to be the one answering Wei Wuxian’s enthusiastic questions about cars and modern cities, not Lan Wangji.

At this point, he was more or less resigned to his own ridiculousness.

“So how does one move something so heavy?” Wei Wuxian was asking. “Electricity? It seems much larger than most electric things, and a cord would be very awkward!”

“They do make electric cars these days,” Nie Huaisang demurred. “But it’s still relatively new technology. Most cars use internal combustion engines. Basically, it works a bit like, oh, a watermill. But rather than being run by water, it’s run by air, because hot air takes up more space than cold air. So – light a spark, fwoomp!, it pushes the engine. The air cools off, it shrinks, light the spark again!”

Wei Wuxian hummed thoughtfully. “There is very little smoke,” he observed.

“These days, yeah. We’ve gotten good at limiting it. But cities can still get so smoggy in the summer, it’s awful! So you should probably brace yourself.”

Wei Wuxian huffed. “I have seen bad city smoke before. But thank you for the warning.” His tone turned sly. “So. The engine. How much did you study to explain?”

Nie Huaisang laughed, waving his phone. “Wei-xiong, what do you take me for?” he protested, as Lan Wangji’s hands tightened on the wheel again at the unnecessarily familiar tone. “I don’t study. I have a phone and I know how to use it!” He paused. “Although I did open a few tabs in advance.”

In the back of his mind, Lan Wangji huffed – although, he reminded himself, he’d done the same thing quite often, trying to find answers to the huge range of questions Wei Wuxian asked about everyday things that Lan Wangji had not thought about since he was a small child. If even then.

At least when he’d done it, he’d been open about needing to look up his answers, rather than reading them off a screen and pretending it was his own knowledge!

Still, he did have to admit to a certain amount of fond amusement at how easily Wei Wuxian had picked up on what Nie Huaisang was doing, when he’d only held a phone for the first time the previous evening. Lan Wangji had waived his own rule regarding mealtime conversation, and he, Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian had spent the evening with the book on great inventions, doing a speed-run history of the invention of phones, cellular signals, and the internet.

In hindsight, Lan Wangji could grant that he perhaps had been a little… overbearing in his emphasis on the dangers of misinformation online. Given what Wei Wuxian had said about false cultivation guides and the dangers of cultivating incorrectly, the man was perfectly familiar with frauds and the false confidence that came with knowing just a little bit about something but not enough to realize what one didn’t know.

As for the other potential risks of the internet… Well. Wei Wuxian had lived in a time when the wrong word at the wrong moment could have fatal consequences, either by offending the wrong person or allowing information to slip to an enemy during war. He likely grasped the dangers of saying too much online far better than the people who’d grown up using the internet.

Small wonder he’d seemed amused by Lan Wangji’s repeated warnings.

Not to mention that his assessment of social media, after they had tried to explain the phenomenon, had been a rather dubious, “So it is like gossip at a cultivation conference? Except that anyone may see it? And it never ends?” No doubt his assessment would change later, when his social circle expanded somewhat, but…

Fortunately, those were concerns that they could address in more detail later; for today, the phone was mostly a precaution against problems during the trip into Caiyi. Although Lan Wangji was under no illusions: now that Wei Wuxian had been introduced to phones and the internet, he would want to explore more.

Especially now that the man had discovered apps.

They’d started out intending to simply practice making calls, but it had quickly become evident that without recourse to facial expressions and gestures and a thousand other subtle cues that Lan Wangji hadn’t even realized existed, Wei Wuxian’s ability to understand what was being said and to communicate in turn were distinctly curtailed. Not to mention that Wei Wuxian was clearly uncomfortable with the phone; he kept reflexively turning to look for the person he was talking to, and he disliked the way it interfered with his awareness of his surroundings.

So, at Wen Yuan’s suggestion, they’d settled on texting as their preferred mode of communication. Wei Wuxian was already familiar with the concept of typing, and it removed the immediate-response pressure of a call – important, given that they would already be stressed if a situation required them to be relying on the phone in the first place.

Wen Yuan and Wei Wuxian had also walked through the “send my location” function, very carefully. Which Wei Wuxian had found fascinating. Apparently it was common practice in his own time to carry signal flares in case of emergencies – given the risk of also drawing unfriendly attention, Lan Wangji could understand the appeal of a more direct and less obvious way of notifying allies of your location.

He was still wrapping his mind around the implications of the fact that gunpowder had apparently predated the Tang, at least within the cultivator sects. Lan Wangji had to wonder – how many other Tang inventions were the result of technology that had once been sect secrets becoming more widely known?

It had also reminded Wen Yuan that if he didn’t want Wei Wuxian to get his hands on far too much teasing material, he would need to disable his social media feeds and adjust the notification settings for the duration of the trip, after Lan Jingyi had texted him something in the middle of the lesson that had left Wei Wuxian laughing breathlessly and Wen Yuan very red-faced.

Lan Wangji had opted not to ask. He was not Wen Yuan’s legal guardian, and he was rather familiar with the many things that a responsible teenage boy would not want the adults in his life to know about.

Whatever Lan Jingyi had sent, it had prompted Wei Wuxian to ask about the camera function on the phone. Which had then led to an exploration of the many different ways that apps used the camera. Wei Wuxian had been fascinated by Wen Yuan’s text-scanning app. And, after playing with it for a while, had gotten an unsettlingly thoughtful expression before he’d begun practically grilling Wen Yuan over how one created such programs. By the time Lan Wangji had retreated for the evening, the pair had been bent over Wen Yuan’s computer science textbook.

It… wasn’t entirely surprising. Wen Yuan had even noted the similarity between talisman design and programming; it made sense that Wei Wuxian would want to explore the possibilities. And he was glad that Wei Wuxian had found something that appealed so strongly to him in the modern world – something new and interesting to help anchor himself in the age of information technology.

He just was trying not to wonder too hard about what sort of programs the man might come up with.

In the meantime, he could see Nie Huaisang affecting a look that was far too innocent to be anything but the exact opposite. “Soooo,” he drawled lazily, waving at the windows and the scenery flashing past. “I bet you can’t go this fast even on a sword!”

Lan Wangji fought the urge to grit his teeth. This again. Nie Huaisang had not been the least bit subtle about pushing for a demonstration.

Granted, so had others. But at least Nie Mingjue had the excuse of needing the information for security purposes. Nie Huaisang was just being nosy.

And with all their prying, Lan Wangji felt like it would be rude to ask his own questions. Which just made it even more frustrating.

Wei Wuxian chuckled knowingly, clearly fully aware of what Nie Huaisang was up to, even as he lightly replied, “A sword can go faster.”

Nie Huaisang hesitated for a moment, blinking. “…Really?” he asked, surprisingly artless.

Which… was a reaction that Lan Wangji had to reluctantly share. They weren’t going at highway speeds by any measure; the tight turns as the road made its way down the mountain ensured that far beyond the speed limit. But speeds around 60 kilometers per hour were still far beyond the reach of any form of ancient transportation, except perhaps for a boat on a fast-moving river.

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “Sometimes. It depends on many things!”

“Cultivation strength?” Nie Huaisang guessed.

In the rear view mirror, Lan Wangji saw Wei Wuxian nod. “That, yes, but also your training, your sword, how long you wish to go so fast… and the weather!” He tapped the glass of the window with a wry smile. “Also, if you know the… hm. Not the first seals to learn, but those that come after? Less necessary but useful?”

“Secondary,” Lan Wangji suggested, making himself focus on the road again.

He heard Wei Wuxian hum as he parsed the new word out, and then felt more than saw the man nod. “Secondary seals, then.” His voice was ruefully amused. “Eating bugs is not fun. And it hurts!”

Interesting. Lan Wangji had not considered that aspect of sword flight… but it did make sense that it would be more like cycling than driving; after a certain point, your speed would be limited by the environment and the need to shield the rider from wind and nuisances.

Although that implied that a sword could go very fast, indeed.

Not to mention, flying. Even if sword flight couldn’t go much faster than the car’s current speed, the simple fact that you could move in a straight line rather than being beholden to roads alone would make it an extremely fast mode of travel in terms of the real world. As demonstrated by the tricky set of turns he was making his way through, forcing him to keep his eyes and attention on the road…

Which meant he couldn’t watch Wei Wuxian’s reaction as the road rounded the final turn and almost immediately reached the turn onto the main expressway heading into the city. But he certainly heard the startled exclamation as Caiyi opened up in front of them, so much bigger from this angle than it always looked from the bird’s-eye view from Cloud Recesses.

Even so, he could imagine the wide-eyed expression. At Nie Huaisang’s suggestion, they’d left Cloud Recesses on one of the access roads normally used for deliveries, to avoid the protesters at the front gate; Wei Wuxian was aware of that situation in the abstract, but there was no reason to force the reality on him when the trip to Caiyi would be overwhelming enough.

And – as Nie Huaisang had flippantly noted – the people most likely to recognize a living Yiling Laozu were the ones who regularly drew fanart of him.

Strategically, it had been the wise decision… but it meant that Wei Wuxian’s first real introduction to the modern world beyond Cloud Recesses was the high-traffic expressway into Caiyi.

“That is…” Wei Wuxian started, and then paused, clearly sorting through his thoughts. “…impressive,” he concluded at last, as they picked up speed to merge into the traffic.

“You can just call it insanity,” Nie Huaisang said cheerfully. “The rest of us certainly do!”

Lan Wangji… was not going to dispute that. Particularly when he was busy watching the increasingly busy traffic as more and more vehicles crowded the road. A part of him genuinely wondered if there was some kind of quantum phenomenon that happened as the road entered the city proper; the traffic always seemed to multiply out of all proportion to the number of vehicles actually entering, as if congestion simply manifested in direct relation to proximity to the city center.

Nie Huaisang was still talking, something about being glad that they weren’t going to Beijing and Caiyi being fairly ordinary as modern cities went. Lan Wangji deliberately tuned him out, all of his attention on the road; it was taking all of his discipline to keep his grip on the steering wheel from going white-knuckled again, and for far more justifiable reason this time. Tame Caiyi might be in comparison to the massive metropolises of international fame, but there was a reason he always used the buses whenever he needed something that he couldn’t find at the farmers market held at the university.

He also avoided the downtown area simply out of a combination of principle and self-preservation.

There was one blessing: once they were off the expressway and onto city streets, the traffic inevitably slowed to a gridlocked crawl. With the car at a full stop as often as not, Lan Wangji felt as if he had a moment to actually breathe again.

A hint of movement in the mirror caught his eye, and he huffed a soft breath of combined sympathy and amusement. The car Nie Mingjue had arranged was relatively spacious – a necessity, given that Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian were both significantly taller than the average. Even so, it was a bit… cramped. As evidenced by the interesting set of contortions that Wei Wuxian was going through, trying to look up through the windows at the skyscrapers lining the street around them.

Until he gave up entirely, and simply stretched out sideways across a startled Nie Huaisang’s lap to look out the opposite window instead.

Lan Wangji’s hands tightened – and then he had to abruptly brake as a cyclist took advantage of his half-second of hesitation to cut across the road in front of him with the confidence of a twenty-something who was utterly certain that mortality only happened to other people.

Behind him, Wei Wuxian chuckled softly. “Some things really don’t change, do they!” he said cheerfully, pulling himself upright again – apparently he’d braced himself on the back of the seat against the sudden jolt.

Lan Wangji drew in a deep breath and swallowed hard, forcing his heart out of his throat and back into his chest where it rightly belonged. “Wei Wuxian. Seatbelt.”

“Eh? …Ah! Sorry!” Out of the corner of his eye, Lan Wangji saw the man wriggle the shoulder strap back into place. Ah, so he hadn’t actually undone the belt, just slipped out of the shoulder strap, and the resulting slack had left the belt basically nonfunctional.

Part of him wanted to scold; he forced it down. Wei Wuxian had not grown up with cars, it would make sense that it would take him some time to adjust to them. And he had, at least, worn the belt in the first place. Lan Wangji had a sneaking suspicion that Nie Huaisang hadn’t.

And Wei Wuxian was leaning to the side again, to look through the front windshield at the buildings. “Those are very tall. Why?” he asked curiously.

An interesting question. Like many things that Wei Wuxian asked about, why skyscrapers were tall was something that had never crossed Lan Wangji’s mind; they simply were.

“In part, it is a problem of space,” he said after a moment. “For those who wish to live and work inside the city limits, there is only so much room, and land is expensive. So where possible, they build up instead.”

He heard Wei Wuxian hum in understanding. No doubt the man was familiar with the pattern; it was one that had existed throughout history, and would have been all the more pronounced in an age where cities required fortified walls for protection. To live outside the walls meant you were vulnerable to attack, but the walls themselves would have limited how many people could live there.

“Technology helps,” Nie Huaisang chirped. “Buildings could get a lot taller once we figured out how to build with steel instead of stone…”

“And once people could, people did,” Wei Wuxian chuckled knowingly. “And, I am guessing, many people trying to build the tallest, for bragging rights?”

Nie Huaisang cackled. “I love the fact that you already know that phrase.”

He did. Lan Wangji couldn’t even blame Wen Yuan for that; it had come up during a conversation about the relationships between cultivation sects, and there simply… had been no more accurate description.

Wei Wuxian laughed, but he was looking out the window again. “So! That is why and how – but what are they used for?”

That, Lan Wangji could answer. “The lower levels are often stores and restaurants, and then offices – places where people do work. The higher levels are often apartments – places where people live.”

“In this area, it’s mostly the first two, unless you have a lot of money,” Nie Huaisang added wryly. “But in other parts of the city, it’s not uncommon for some buildings to be nothing but apartments.”

Wei Wuxian paused. “That is very many stairs for going home,” he observed at last, and Lan Wangji could hear the dubious expression.

Nie Huaisang groaned. “It really, really is!” he agreed mournfully. “There was one time when the elevator in my building was broken for a whole week! And Dage said I had to keep going to class anyway! It was college, you’re supposed to skive, but noooo…” He sniffled dramatically. “I don’t think my legs ever recovered!”

Wei Wuxian was quiet for another long moment, probably trying to parse as much meaning as he could from the flurry of unfamiliar words. Finally, he asked, “Elevator?”

“Ah, right, you don’t know those. Hmmm…”

“It is… a form of carriage,” Lan Wangji offered. “It is designed to be lifted up and down inside the building, to help people move between levels.”

“Which is good,” Nie Huaisang added, “because let me tell you, the restaurants at the top of those things? Great view, but you couldn’t pay me to go up there without an elevator!”

A movement in the mirror – Wei Wuxian tilting his head. “How do you know what is there?” he asked.

“Oh, most places advertise online,” Nie Huaisang said breezily. “And the lower levels usually have signs showing what’s on the upper floors, if they’re businesses. Plus, well!” He waved at an excruciatingly pink neon sign.

Wei Wuxian eyed it with an expression that was an eloquent mixture of impressed, amused, and deeply disturbed. “What makes the colors?” he asked.

“Ah! And my preparation pays off again!” Nie Huaisang ostentatiously held up his phone and began reading. “So… basically, the color comes from different types of gases – kinds of air, more or less. Certain gases glow when an electrical current… Lan Wangji, there’s an open parking space in that garage, pull in!”

Startled, Lan Wangji looked up, seeing the sign just in time to signal the turn. Then he glanced at the car’s GPS navigation system and frowned. “We are still several blocks from our destination,” he objected, even as he made the turn. This was a weekday morning, so the traffic was not as dire as it could be – but finding a parking space would still not be easy by any means.

Nie Huaisang waved his hand. “But the whole point of this is to introduce him to the city! You really can’t get a better introduction than walking around downtown on foot. It will be educational.” Then he brightened. “Although, if you’re offering to just drop the two of us off at the building while you go park the car, I’m sure we can get started without you…”

It was a blatant provocation and Lan Wangji knew it. Nie Huaisang was not even trying to be subtle about needling him.

Lan Wangji turned into an open parking space and turned the car off. “We will walk,” he said flatly.

Opening his door he got out and – pointedly ignoring Nie Huaisang’s pout – walked around the car to open Wei Wuxian’s door for him. The cultivator grinned at him as he unfolded himself out of the seat, stretching out long limbs with an audible sigh of relief—

Immediately interrupted by a fit of startled coughing, one hand coming up to his nose in surprise.

Lan Wangji grimaced in sympathy. The smell of the parking garage was… interesting, heavy with gasoline and exhaust. How much more so for Wei Wuxian, who’d never encountered the smell of modern industry and had had no idea what to expect?

“The air will be better once we are outside,” he offered as Wei Wuxian recovered and lowered his hand again, although his nose was still wrinkled with distaste. It was a surprisingly cute expression.

“Not that much better, though,” Nie Huaisang added with brutal honesty. “Just be glad we’re not in one of the big industrial cities. At least you can breathe the air in Caiyi without feeling it shaving hours off your potential lifespan.”

Lan Wangji grimaced. At least they weren’t at the height of smog season, and the relatively cooler and drier air compared to coastal cities like Shanghai kept it from getting too bad, helped by the wind off the mountains. Still.

Reaching the street level exit, he took a moment to brace himself. With everything that had happened with the project, he had not actually gone off the campus grounds for some months. It had been some time since he’d dealt with city crowds.

Even with that preparation, stepping out onto the sidewalk was an almost physical shock, with the mass of people having its own currents and countercurrents trying to pull him back and forth. He nearly collided with three different people before he found a space that allowed him to begin moving in the right direction.

Wei Wuxian took one look at the crowd and quickly maneuvered himself around so that he was between Lan Wangji and the storefront side of the walk, shamelessly using Lan Wangji as a bulwark between himself and the mass of the crowds. Lan Wangji did not blame him in the least. If it had been a long time since he’d had to deal with crowds, it had been even longer for Wei Wuxian. And given that cultivators were usually armed, and at least nobility-adjacent, it was unlikely that anyone in his time would have carelessly shoulder-checked him out of their way the way one suited, briefcase-carrying man just had to Lan Wangji.

Well. Had started to, until the man’s hindbrain apparently registered just how much taller Lan Wangji was, and his straight, tall stance. At which point the man’s steps stuttered slightly as he abruptly decided that perhaps he should bowl over someone else in his rush to get wherever he was going.

There were occasional advantages to being unusually tall and reasonably athletic.

And Nie Huaisang simply swept through the crowds like a fish through calm waters, never even looking up from his phone.

“Now, those girls with the white shirts and dark skirts walking together? That’s a school uniform, so they’re probably classmates. But it’s summer and most schools are closed! So either they’re attending a summer prep school, or they’re making a sly dig at the system.” Nie Huaisang stepped smoothly around a mother with a stroller and added, “And the men in black suits? Those are usually working for businesses – basically merchants and their staff. Suits are tricky, because there’s a whole range of people who wear them, and the differences are usually very subtle… Ooh, see that fellow? With the hint of dark green pinstripe on the black, and that tie? He’s making a statement. Too young to be a power player, so probably an independent of some sort. Ah, that family over there, definitely not locals, you can see the way the parents are following their daughter…”

Lan Wangji blinked as Nie Huaisang continued. He’d never thought about half the things that the man was pointing out, subtle details of dress and bearing and even the pace of the people around them, but every observation and offhand comment found him mentally nodding agreement. He hadn’t even been aware that he noticed more than half of the details that Nie Huaisang was breezily listing off, and yet every part of it rang true.

Next to him, he could feel some of the well-hidden tension coiled in Wei Wuxian ease as the man relaxed slightly. Which was odd; if anything, the crowds had gotten worse as they approached the first crosswalk and were forced to move into the thick of the press—

But Nie Huaisang is giving him the context to read the crowd, he realized a moment later. The cultural familiarity that had Lan Wangji nodding agreement to Nie Huaisang’s words – Wei Wuxian would have had that in his own time. But here, in addition to the crowds themselves, the man was dealing with information overload, with no context to know how to parse what he observed into useable information.

He was a very quick study, though. Already… Lan Wangji had no idea what he’d done, but somehow, he’d adjusted his movements to the crowd until he was moving through the mass of people with more ease than Lan Wangji himself. And somehow, despite how very alien everything must seem, he managed to keep himself from staring any more than the various non-locals scattered through the crowd…

Because he is deliberately imitating them, Lan Wangji realized, as they passed the family that Nie Huaisang had pointed out and Wei Wuxian’s gaze flickered towards them for a moment. Wei Wuxian had marked the people in the crowd who were unfamiliar with the city and was using their behavior as a model, to hide just how unfamiliar he found his surroundings.

Even so, the man was staying very close to Lan Wangji as the light changed and the crowd surged around them; they didn’t so much step onto the crosswalk as they were carried there. Lan Wangji had to admit that he was relieved. The churn of the crowd would make it dangerously easy to get separated. Not to mention that, while they had discussed traffic signs and signals and the rules of navigating thoroughly the previous night, the current situation was deeply distracting and it would not be fair to expect Wei Wuxian to bear all their cautions in mind in the face of so much information overload…

Although Lan Wangji belatedly realized that Wei Wuxian was not the only one distracted, when he stepped off the road on the far side of the street and straight into the path of a teenager on a skateboard. He only managed to avoid a head-on collision by wrenching himself back and out of the way, grabbing Wei Wuxian and pulling him in without thinking and only realizing the heartbeat after that Wei Wuxian was a combat veteran and probably would not react well to being manhandled—

But the man didn’t react, other than to catch his balance enough to keep the momentum from throwing both of them back into the street. He didn’t even pull back from where Lan Wangji had unintentionally pulled the man against himself, too busy staring after the skateboarder with wide eyes. “Lan Zhan – what was that?”

Had he not seen… ah, no, he would not have. Skateboards were banned on Cloud Recesses grounds, for very good reason! “That was a skateboard,” he said, careful to keep the distaste from his tone. “It is recreational…”

Wei Wuxian twisted to look up at him, gray eyes silver-bright with glee. “We should get one!”

“Ah…” Flustered, Lan Wangji hastily let go and stepped back slightly, so that their faces wouldn’t be so very close. “Why?”

Wei Wuxian grinned. “We should get it so that Wen Yuan can practice sword balance!”

Lan Wangji blinked. On consideration… yes, he could understand the thought. There was indeed a certain similarity in the motion, and he could understand how the balance and… thought process, if that was the right concept, of maneuvering on a skateboard would require similar skills as sword flight…

Except that flight on a sword had poise and dignity. A skateboard was anything but.

“Oh, I’d pay to see that!” Nie Huaisang materialized from somewhere in the crowd, hooking Wei Wuxian’s arm with his own to pull the man back into motion and out of the worst of the crowd. “Which reminds me, we should make sure to get you some proper athletic clothes! I’m sure what you have works, but people expect certain clothes with certain activities, and honestly, athleisure is a style I’m pretty sure you could pull off very nicely…”

Lan Wangji froze as his brain suddenly assaulted him with the mental image of Wei Wuxian in form-hugging gymnastics clothing, and nearly lost the two in the crowd before he managed to get himself moving again.

“I do not understand why we must go to a tailor,” he… yes, he would be honest, he was growling. Although the statement was as much a desperate attempt to shift the subject away from the dangerous waters it had entered as it was his – genuine – irritation with Nie Huaisang’s high-handed hijacking of the day’s itinerary.

Still tugging the clearly amused Wei Wuxian along, Nie Huaisang waved a flippant hand before returning to scrolling through his social media or whatever it was that kept the man glued to the screen of his phone. “Several reasons! First and foremost, you and Wen Qing were entirely correct about the importance of clothing to control first impressions and how our friend here will be treated. However, while the outfit you provided him is excellent – my compliments to Wen Yuan and his friend – it won’t be enough. He’ll need a proper suit as well, at bare minimum, and it takes time to make a bespoke suit! If we wait for everything to go public, it will be far too late. You have to plan these things in advance, you know!”

Lan Wangji pressed his lips together. On general principles, yes, Nie Huaisang had a very good point. Still. “There are other means of acquiring a suit,” he said flatly. Means that would be far less expensive, and more importantly would not involve the risk of revealing Wei Wuxian’s existence to a complete outsider for frivolous purposes!

Nie Huaisang looked over his shoulder, casually running his eyes over Lan Wangji from head to toe. And smirked. “Well, that explains a few things,” he said cryptically.

“This tailor. It is a matter of status, correct?” Wei Wuxian said unexpectedly.

Nie Huaisang blinked, taken aback, and Wei Wuxian tilted his head to indicate the crowd. “The suits – as you said, the differences are… subtle? Meaning difficult to notice? But the people who wear suits that are made for them, they walk like people who have power.”

Nie Huaisang grinned. “Oh, you’re good. Yes, that’s part of it. But also?” He huffed, gesturing at his own clothing, which even Lan Wangji could see managed to look both formal in a classic style but also distinctly fashionable. “Let me let you both in on a little secret: everyone who can afford it gets their clothing tailored, or at least adjusted. Because the clothes you buy in stores? They’re designed to fit as many people as possible – which means they don’t fit anyone well.” He snickered. “Besides. You’re way too tall for most brands! How much of your wardrobe do you get online or by special order, Professor Lan?”

He was… not wrong, Lan Wangji had to admit. Reluctantly. Although it had never occurred to him to get the clothing he purchased adjusted after the fact…

The sly look Nie Huaisang gave him then did not help. “Besides. Imagine Wei Wuxian walking into the average clothing store.”

Lan Wangji did not blanch. But he was acutely aware of how very helpful the staff of such stores were when he walked into one – and he was well aware that he was not particularly approachable.

And that didn’t even get into the problem of option shock, or the fact that Wei Wuxian had no idea about the differences in men’s and women’s fashion beyond what he had been able to observe for himself. He would have so many questions.

Much as he disliked it… Nie Huaisang had a point. This trip was meant to be a first introduction to modern urban life – not a deep dive into some of its most stressful foibles. The traffic and crowds were bad enough for one day.

So, reluctantly, Lan Wangji followed Nie Huaisang as he led them at last out of the crowds and into an elegantly appointed lobby on the ground floor of one of the high rise buildings.

Wei Wuxian relaxed subtly as they left the crowd behind, looking around with interest as they walked across the lobby. Lan Wangji saw the man’s eyes linger on the patterned marble tiles, the glass doors and gold lettering of the ground floor businesses, the polished dark wood paneling and stone-faced columns of the walls, clearly marking the differences from the architecture he’d seen. No doubt marking the signs that all declared that this was a place of tasteful wealth.

Lan Wangji certainly was. He was beginning to have a sinking feeling about this tailor Nie Huaisang had insisted they visit.

If Wei Wuxian had not been coping so well with everything – or at least hiding his reactions – Lan Wangji might not have noticed the moment he balked as the elevator doors opened, an unexpected moment of hesitation as Nie Huaisang and Lan Wangji stepped past and inside.

Oh. Suddenly, Lan Wangji found himself looking at the elevator car with new eyes, seeing it as Wei Wuxian would: a tiny space with heavily reinforced walls and doors, the only way out being the way they’d come in. Even with the glass mirrors and paneling on the walls, it was a box, a cell, with the only sound being the hum of machinery.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes darted sideways for a moment, towards the security guard that Lan Wangji hadn’t even noticed, sitting at a desk on one side of the lobby. Not paying more than cursory attention to them yet, but any strange behavior and that could quickly change—

Wei Wuxian strolled into the elevator just as the doors began to close, the only indication of his unease a hidden sharpness in his eyes and the tensing of his shoulders as the doors closed behind him.

Then he started as the elevator began to rise, reflexively looking down at his feet and then up at the ceiling before his face suddenly brightened.

“Ah! This is an… elevator, was the word?”

“Yes! A very, very nice one,” Nie Huaisang said brightly, phone tapping his upper lip as he watched the numbers cycling upwards. Outwardly. But Lan Wangji was surprised to see the man’s eyes dart sideways to watch Wei Wuxian with hidden concern, and he had the sudden feeling that he was not the only one mentally kicking himself for not considering how utterly unsettling an elevator car would be to someone who had never experienced such a thing before. “You should check that lovely inventions book Wen Yuan got you, when we get back. Elevators like this one were invented…” His eyes darted to the phone for a half-second, and Lan Wangji suddenly realized Nie Huaisang had been typing a search as he talked. “…almost two hundred years ago,” he finished, without so much as a hint of hesitation.

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “A while, then!” he said, tilting his head back and forth, probably trying to locate the source of the humming of the machinery.

He seemed at ease again… but Lan Wangji was learning to get a sense of the man’s masks, and he suspected that there would be pointed questions about the location of the stairs when their business was finished.

Although that would be a very long walk down, given that the elevator only stopped on the fifteenth floor.

And now Lan Wangji’s sinking feeling about the tailor they were going to see had gotten worse, because while he would never claim to be as informed on fashion and style as Nie Huaisang seemed to be, it was very clear that this was not someone that people found by accident.

Especially when the door Nie Huaisang chose boasted no more than a simple nameplate declaring Gao Huiqing, Tailor, and opened it to reveal an elegantly appointed foyer with comfortable seating, a side counter with service for tea and coffee, and a large picture window across the length of one wall featuring a glorious view of the city.

Lan Wangji might not know much about the lives of the wealthy and powerful, but he was acutely aware that an office with a view like that would not be cheap.

“Nie Huaisang,” he said flatly, stopping in the doorway. Because they did have some budget for this, yes, but contrary to the impression given by far too many movies and television series, academe was not exactly swimming with money… and what they did have came almost entirely from grants that would require them to report where every penny went.

He was confident that they could justify the purchase of a basic wardrobe and some more formal clothing as an unexpected but necessary expense, or even cover the cost out of pocket if needed. But there was no way that hiring the services of a clearly high-end and expensive tailor would be seen as anything but an utterly frivolous misappropriation of funds… which was exactly the sort of thing that could be used to justify wresting control of the project away from them!

Wei Wuxian had immediately gone to the window, taking in the view of the city, but he quickly turned to look at Lan Wangji, clearly picking up on the tension in his tone. But Nie Huaisang – the very one who had been warning them about the project’s conduct inviting interference! – just blithely waved a hand. “Oh, I’m sure it will be fine! Lan Qiren okayed it, after all!”

Lan Wangji had serious doubts about that.

Unfortunately… if Nie Huaisang had made the arrangements for this, then the expense had already been incurred. The only thing that walking out would achieve would be to leave the project with a cancellation fee as well. So, with a sigh, Lan Wangji stepped inside and let the door close behind him.

Nie Huaisang was already headed for the door in the back of the waiting room. “You two settle in, I’ll let him know we’re here!”

Nie Huaisang was still mentally snickering to himself as he walked into the office room where Gao Huiqing did his consultations to find the tailor waiting for him. Really, Lan Wangji had talent. He hadn’t even known it was possible to simply radiate I find every aspect of your existence inherently untrustworthy without actually changing your expression!

Which, really, he’d like a little gratitude here! He had pulled quite a few strings to set this appointment up, and getting a sight-unseen, no names named consultation with an artisan of Gao Huiqing’s caliber was not easy. And they were lucky that Caiyi had such a successful arts community to tap into, and a strong sense of regional pride; this whole business would have been much trickier if he’d had to reach out as far as the big metropolitan centers like Beijing or Shanghai.

Gao Huiqing looked up from his computer. “Nie Huaisang,” he said, almost as flatly as Lan Wangji himself. Which, ow. If Nie Huaisang hadn’t thickened his skin dealing with so many grumpy Lans recently he might actually have been hurt by such an unwelcoming attitude!

Well, granted, the man did have some reason to be slightly irritated. Some of his string-pulling had included more than a few hard yanks, especially to ensure the whole “no names named” aspect. After all, part of what put Gao Huiqing in such high demand was his discretion regarding his clients. Refusing to even give the name of his new client in advance was an insult to the man’s professionalism.

Which was part of why Nie Huaisang had done it that way, of course. All a matter of balancing insult against intrigue, and piquing the right level of curiosity. After all, Gao Huiqing had the clientele he did in part because he enjoyed being in on secrets.

So he intentionally notched the flutter up a bit. Just for the fun of it. “Master Gao, I’m so grateful to you for making the time for us!” he gushed. “Especially given such irregular circumstances – but I’m sure you understand that secrecy in this matter is essential…”

Gao Huiqing huffed impatiently. “I have already agreed to keep this consultation confidential,” he said brusquely. “Yiling Laozu himself could rise from the dead and walk through that door and I would not speak a word of it.”

Oh. Ooh. Ooooooh! Oh, Nie Huaisang owed his ancestors something nice the next time Qingming rolled around, because he could not have asked for a better opening line than that!

With a quick tap, he queued up the file. Getting Dage’s permission to load it on his phone had genuinely been the hardest part of the plan, and he’d promised that he would delete it and wipe the data the moment this was done. Which was unfortunate, but then again, he of all people didn’t want it getting out before the popcorn was ready. “Excellent!” he trilled – honestly, this obsequious aide persona was fun, he’d have to use it again sometime – and held out the phone. “Now, this is just a short video, but once you see it I’m sure you’ll understand our concerns…”

He waited until the man actually started the video, and then he let the shark’s smile out to play.

Dage was right. Once you’d been through the first shock, there really was nothing like the thrill of inflicting it on someone else.

Gao Huiqing didn’t even move as the video ended, just sat gaping at the screen even as it dimmed and shut off. Amused, Nie Huaisang plucked the phone out of the tailor’s hand, and only then did he blink and come back to himself.

“…Yiling Laozu,” he said weakly.

Nie Huaisang held his phone up to cover the lower half of his face – not that it would do much to hide the smirk. “I’m sure you understand our need for absolute discretion,” he said mildly, twirling one of the charm tassels with his index finger. “As well as the need for a new wardrobe! I’m afraid that what he has is a little… dated.”

Gao Huiqing nodded numbly, and then visibly shook himself and nodded again, more briskly this time. “I… would imagine so, yes. So you are looking for a full wardrobe, then. Not simply formalwear for public appearances.”

Excellent. The man was still in shock, but he was falling back into his professionalism to handle it. That had really been the biggest gamble in this scheme; there really was no way to predict how someone would take everything.

“Ideally, yes,” he said, and fiddled with his phone just a little awkwardly, to sell the next bit. “Although, we probably will need to prioritize the formalwear? He’ll need something special when the time comes to make everything public. We can make do for everyday clothing if we have to – after all, Wei Wuxian isn’t familiar with modern fashions…” Here, fishie fishie fishie…

Hah. As he’d expected, Gao Huiqing’s lips pursed in professional distaste at the idea of making do. “I can at least give you recommendations within your budget,” he said stiffly – but he seemed oddly distracted, and a moment later, almost tentatively, he asked, “Wei Wuxian?”

Nie Huaisang blinked guilelessly. “Yiling Laozu isn’t actually his name, you realize.”

After all, that was the practical reason he’d pushed so hard for no-names-named for this appointment. Anyone who saw Yiling Laozu on the appointment request would have thrown it out as a prank, and “Wei Wuxian” didn’t actually exist yet, legally.

Ah, and there was the stunned, slightly star-struck look again, as it started sinking in that yes, they really were talking about an actual person. A person that Gao Huiqing was about to meet.

Nie Huaisang waited, though. After all, he’d established now that he was willing to answer questions – and he’d been very insistent on showing the full footage of Wei Wuxian waking out of the ice.

Granted, once he’d gotten past the hurdle of showing the footage at all, his brother hadn’t fussed too much about it. After all, Nie Mingjue categorically hated formal clothes for a reason.

“In the video,” Gao Huiqing said at last, very carefully. “He appeared to have…” He made a vague grabbing motion to the air in front of his chest, echoing that physics-defying bullet catch.

Bait, hook and sinker! This time, Nie Huaisang was careful to actually hide his smirk, if only in solidarity. “If you’re asking if he’s a real cultivator, powers and all… why yes, he is. You should have seen the faces the first time his sword moved on its own!”

Not that he’d seen those expressions either, the security feed of that confrontation wasn’t great. But Nie Mingjue’s smirk at the mere memory told him that they’d been epic.

“So I’m sure that you understand the need for some… extra attention regarding formalwear,” he said lightly. “Wei Wuxian is someone who is accustomed to moving very quickly when needed.” He paused. “Not always on the ground.”

Okay, there really was something hilariously charming about a grown man revert to the sparkling eyes of an awestruck five-year-old.

And this was one of the reasons why Nie Huaisang had wanted Gao Huiqing. Because it wasn’t normally part of the man’s professional life, but Nie Huaisang happened to know that the man was a closet fanboy, if one with style.

Rather literally so. He couldn’t confirm, but he was quite sure that Gao Huiqing had had a hand in those lovely replica robes that Wen Yuan had found for Wei Wuxian. If only in the form of cheering the creator on, offering some reference material, and possibly helping source some of the fabric.

He couldn’t wait to see the reaction when the man found out Wei Wuxian had acquired one of the replicas.

Still. One more bit of groundwork. “Still, your advice on everyday wear would be appreciated. You see, for obvious reasons we don’t want to go public just yet. But he does need to get out and learn about the modern world – today is his first trip into the city! So…”

Gao Huiqing nodded briskly. “So first you will need clothing that will allow him to blend in and not be recognized. In fact, I recommend that we find two styles that will suit him, one for when he is in his public identity and another for when he wishes privacy.” To Nie Huaisang’s slight surprise, the man smiled wryly. “I have worked with clients who had fame happen to them before. I do understand how valuable the ability to be inconspicuous can be.”

Hah! We. Gao Huiqing might not have officially signed on for more than a fitting, but it was obvious that he was already invested. Excellent.

Not that he’d had any doubts; this was not exactly an opportunity that would ever strike again. But he did so love seeing a plan play out.

Nie Huaisang snickered at his own sense of deja vu. “I think inconspicuous may be a tall order, for multiple reasons,” he said wryly. “We may have to settle for blending in. Fortunately, he’s quite adaptable.”

Gao Huiqing paused for just a second, and Nie Huaisang could see him packing the stunned, star struck reaction underneath the professional artisan. Nice trick, and one the tailor probably had a great deal of practice in. Then he nodded to himself and gestured for Nie Huaisang to precede him back into the waiting room.

Lan Wangji had settled in one of the chairs – although settled was really not the right word for that ramrod straight, picture-perfect posture; it was practically an insult to what was clearly a very comfortable chair. Wei Wuxian, meanwhile, had draped himself over the back of the chair like a particularly lazy cat so that he could peer over Lan Wangji’s shoulder at…

“You brought a dead tree map?” Nie Huaisang spluttered, genuinely appalled. What sort of child of the internet was this man? “What do you think phones are for?”

“Phoning,” Lan Wangji said, utterly deadpan.

Okay, now that was not fair. Who would have thought Lan Wangji had a jab like that in him?

Wei Wuxian was laughing at them both, eyes bright and dancing with amusement. Nie Huaisang huffed at him, wrinkling his nose in annoyance, and just got another one of those brilliant smiles for his trouble. Admittedly, not a bad consolation prize, but still.

“Seriously, though!” he insisted. “Wei Wuxian used a phone for the first time last night, and he’s already savvier about technology than you!”

Lan Wangji’s exhale was just emphatic enough that Nie Huaisang figured he was justified in scoring it as an exasperated sigh. “The phone’s screen is not large enough.”

“That’s what the give me directions function is for,” Nie Huaisang countered.

“Not when one wishes to see the overall layout.”

Oh. Huh. Nie Huaisang glanced at Wei Wuxian. “Looking for what’s left of the old Caiyi?”

“Yep!” Wei Wuxian shrugged wryly. “There is not much. I expected that! Fifteen hundred years is a very long time. But I was curious.”

“Not much, but not nothing,” Lan Wangji said. “The historic canal district near the lake may have some remnants.”

“Then once we’re done here, you should pay it a visit!” Nie Huaisang said brightly. “Let him see the part of the city that isn’t an urban jungle. But in the meantime…” He clapped his hands, grinning cheerfully. “Introductions! Gentlemen, this is Gao Huiqing, who has generously agreed to assist us with our clothing… situation.”

“And you, I assume, are Wei Wuxian,” Gao Huiqing said, opting for a formal bow rather than a more casual handshake. “I look forward to working with you.” As he spoke, his eyes flickered over the man, taking in the fact that Wei Wuxian stood a good ten centimeters taller than him, the lean and athletic physique, the striking features, bright grey eyes and absolutely dazzling smile, and cast an amused look at Nie Huaisang. “And I see your point about the issue with inconspicuous,” he said wryly, before turning his attention to Lan Wangji. “And you are?”

“Lan Wangji,” the man said, face flat as ever. “I am a professor at the university, and currently assisting Wei Wuxian in adapting to the modern world.”

Nie Huaisang made two mental notes. First, they desperately needed to work with Lan Wangji on his stage presence. Second… they needed to workshop a proper title for his position. Something catchy and short, that people would remember. Because that was not going to fly in front of the cameras. In the meantime… “He’s also the second fitting that I requested,” he said with a smirk.

And found himself looking potential murder, or at least maiming, squarely in the golden eye. “What.”

“This is image management, Professor Lan!” he said cheerfully, because really, Nie Mingjue was his brother, he was hardly going to be rattled by a murderous stare or two. “What people see the first time Wei Wuxian appears in public officially? That is going to be the image that shapes their idea of this, and the way they imagine the story. And that means we want you right there with him, so that everyone gets the idea that you’re a matched set lodged all the way back in the hindbrain where logic need not apply, and if anyone even suggests snatching Wei Wuxian from the project, housewives the world over will be grabbing their pearls and their kitchen knives.”

Wei Wuxian snickered at that – although there was something oddly complicated about his smile. It made Nie Huaisang wonder – had the cultivator been in a situation like this before? It was possible; the strategies and weapons may have changed, but jockeying for power and influence and control and image? Nothing new under the sun in that.

Well, hopefully that at least meant he appreciated how much effort Nie Huaisang was putting into this, because going by Lan Wangji’s flat, unimpressed stare, he was clueless about how important this was!

So Nie Huaisang deployed his backup. “I mean, I don’t know, you don’t have to, if it bothers you that much. Although Wei Wuxian should really have someone there to help him, you wouldn’t send him out to face a bunch of cameras and reporters alone, would you?” He tapped the edge of his phone against his cheek. “Although I suppose I could do it, it does technically count as part of what you hired me for…”

Lan Wangji’s stare somehow managed to become even flatter, which was genuinely impressive. A man of many talents! “Very well,” he said. “What does this fitting entail?”

Gao Huiqing nodded, as if Nie Huaisang hadn’t just handed him the best job ever in the form of a matched set of gorgeous subjects to show his handiwork upon – really, what did a man have to do for some appreciation around here? – and gestured to the door leading to the consultation room. “I believe I can find a style that will suit you,” he said. “If you will come this way?”

As the tailor went to pull out the privacy screen, Nie Huaisang decided he’d poke the bear just a little more. “Professor Lan, perhaps you might go first, and let Wei Wuxian watch? So that he knows what to expect and all!”

Ooh, score another dirty look! But Lan Wangji did sigh and step over to the fitting area, but not actually behind the screen, without a word of complaint. Nie Huaisang supposed he’d gotten used to playing human model during the early days when they’d barely been able to communicate, for medical checkups and such…

…Ooor maybe Lan Wangji was not entirely opposed to taking advantage of an excuse to take his shirt off in front of a certain someone. Because wow. If Nie Huaisang had a physique like that, he’d flaunt it, too! Not a bodybuilder, and certainly not the sort of chiseled superhero look that came from dehydration for the sake of the cameras, but despite Lan Wangji’s slender build there was some real muscle on that frame.

Gao Huiqing was a consummate professional, moving the measuring tape around with brisk efficiency that made embarrassment practically impossible, as he asked Lan Wangji a series of questions regarding his thoughts on material, style, colors and such. Questions that Lan Wangji only answered with monosyllables until finally, Gao Huiqing stepped back, crossed his arms over his chest, and fixed Lan Wangji with a flat stare that rivaled the scholar’s own.

“Professor Lan,” he said sternly, but with a hint of amusement that made Nie Huaisang suspect that this was not his first reluctant client, “my job is to make you look good. The most flattering cut in the world, however, will not look good if you dislike synthetics, are allergic to wool, find bright colors distracting, or prefer a loose fit for your sleeves. No one looks good if they are uncomfortable. So I need your preferences as well as your measurements to do my job correctly.”

Lan Wangji blinked, just once. His expression didn’t even twitch other than that, but after a moment he tilted his head slightly. “I prefer light colors,” he said at last, in response to the question he’d not-answered a moment before. “White. Pale blue. Not light grey, however.”

Gao Huiqing hummed, nodding. “Light grey is very difficult to wear well, I agree. Are more vivid tones acceptable as underlayers or accents…?”

Once that hurdle had been crossed, the rest of the fitting went quickly, and soon Gao Huiqing was jotting a few final notes into his tablet as Lan Wangji buttoned his shirt back into place.

“You have an excellent sense of style and color for yourself; we can maintain something along the lines of what you have already established, although I will be making recommendations for some alternative suppliers who I believe you will find suit you better than your current ones. However, Mister Nie is quite correct: you will be best served by custom formalwear, given your situation.”

One corner of the consultation room was occupied by a small table and a shelf of custom-bound volumes that proved to be portfolios of high-quality photos that seemed to have been taken from magazines and professional shoots. Gao Huiqing selected a handful and placed them on the table before turning to look sternly at Lan Wangji again. “I want you to go through these and select at least five styles that appeal to you.”

Lan Wangji pursed his lips slightly, but settled into one of the chairs next to the table with all the dignity of an offended cat.

Wei Wuxian had watched the proceedings with his usual bright interest, and when Gao Huiqing turned to him – apparently satisfied that Lan Wangji was treating his assignment with the appropriate level of seriousness – he bounced up from where he had been leaning against the wall. “My turn?” he asked with a grin.

“Yes. We can go behind the screen, if you prefer,” Gao Huiqing offered.

Wei Wuxian shrugged as he pulled off the loose white button-up he’d been wearing over his shirt like a kind of overrobe. “I feel like I should not be in front of other people already,” he chuckled. “It seems very silly to worry about it now!”

Not to mention that he also very clearly had nothing to be ashamed of. Lan Wangji was fit; Wei Wuxian was for all intents and purposes a professional athlete, and it showed.

Although even a professional athlete would probably blanch at that collection of scars. Yikes. Had Nie Huaisang mentioned recently that he was very glad that he lived in an age where your enemies generally only set out to destroy you financially and socially? Sure, fates worse than death, yadda yadda, but dead was dead.

And that wasn’t even getting into the mess on the man’s back, which was an entirely different color of yikes. Yes, he’d read about that sort of thing, but…

Huh. A quick swipe-and-tap on his phone, and Nie Huaisang jotted a quick note. Because they’d covered history and technology and medicine, and excursions like this would help with culture and daily life… But they definitely needed to give Wei Wuxian a heads-up on politics, society, and how the law worked – on paper and in actual practice. Especially since he’d lived in a time where there essentially was no real law outside the dictates of individual power brokers within their own sphere of influence, no higher authority to appeal to if they abused those powers except maybe peer pressure from the next lord over.

Gao Huiqing had to have noticed the scars as well, but he didn’t react. Instead, he asked, “You feel under-dressed? Can you be more specific? Is the fabric not heavy enough, or is it a matter of layers? Or maybe the length?”

“Ah…” Wei Wuxian seemed to consider that as he held his arms out to let the man start taking measurements. “It is not the fabric. The fabric you use today is very good!”

Gao Huiqing nodded. “So it is the lack of layers and the length. I am familiar with the design of clothing from your time—”

Yes, Nie Huaisang would just bet he was. Granted, clothing was the man’s profession, it would make sense that he’d be well-versed in its history.

“—and I believe I can create designs that would feel similar, for formalwear. Everyday clothing may be more difficult. I assume you are not familiar with modern styles, if this is your first trip to Caiyi…”

“Clothes are… different now, yes,” Wei Wuxian noted with a wry smile. “I have noticed! But if that is what people wear, I will need to… hm. To change what I expect?”

Gao Huiqing pursed his lips. “I’m sure we can come up with something acceptable,” he said stiffly, and Nie Huaisang did not indulge in evil cackling but he was definitely going to later. Wei Wuxian probably hadn’t intended to wave a red flag at the bull, but it was clear that Gao Huiqing was taking this as a challenge. “In the meantime, it will help to establish what your preferences in general are. Am I correct that you tend to be…” He hesitated. “…very active? You prefer clothing that will not make it difficult to move?”

Wei Wuxian cast a sidelong glance over his shoulder, openly amused. “You can ask. Yes, flying on the sword is a Thing.”

For just a moment, Gao Huiqing froze, eyes wide and suspiciously starry.

Wei Wuxian chuckled, glancing at Nie Huaisang and Lan Wangji. “Why is that the thing that everyone wishes to ask about?”

Nie Huaisang spluttered, waving his hands in disbelief. “Because it’s flying! On a sword!”

“It is an ability that…appeals to many,” Lan Wangji admitted.

Nie Huaisang huffed at him. “Don’t you pretend you’re any different. I saw you twitch when he said a skateboard might be a good training tool.” Granted, probably because the man considered himself too dignified for skateboards, but still!

Wei Wuxian tilted his head as Gao Huiqing shook himself slightly and returned to taking measurements. “I meant to ask. No one seems to carry swords now, is that correct?”

“Pretty much,” Nie Huaisang admitted. “I mean, for one thing, most of us aren’t fast enough to dodge bullets, so swords sort of… weren’t so helpful after a while. These days they tend to be decorative, or used for exercise.”

Wei Wuxian huffed. “So to find one who can make a sword for cultivating is something that may not happen,” he concluded wryly.

“It’s probably unlikely,” Nie Huaisang concluded ruefully. And cackled internally, because he’d hoped to steer the conversation in this direction!

“There are some artisans who still practice traditional sword-making,” Lan Wangji noted, looking up from the images he’d been not-scowling at. “They may have preserved at least part of the craft unawares. And some heirloom swords may possibly have survived… but if so, they are likely not in a useable condition, and access would be limited,” he admitted. “Are specially made blades necessary?”

Wei Wuxian laughed. “Necessary, no,” he said. “After all, if they were necessary, then what would the first cultivators have used?” He hummed, tapping a finger against his cheek as Gao Huiqing paused to take notes, not even pretending he wasn’t listening avidly. “Still. They do help,” he admitted. “They make early steps easier. More simple.”

“And the early steps are the ones you want to be simple if you’re going to be teaching raw newbies,” Nie Huaisang agreed casually, and graciously pretended he didn’t see Gao Huiqing’s eyes widen at teaching. “Well, maybe Lan Wangji can dig something out of his dusty old archives. Or… I don’t suppose you know anything about the process?”

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “Simple things. I mostly know what one should not do.”

Lan Wangji was frowning slightly. “Are there other tools or supplies that you will require?”

Nie Huaisang ducked behind his phone to hide a smirk.

“Hm!” Wei Wuxian tapped his cheek again, thinking. “Paper and ink, but I do not know how it has changed. Instruments for music.” He chuckled. “At least your tea is good. Before, it was not easy to get tea that good. It was expensive!”

Nie Huaisang grinned. “Wait until you try coffee.”

Wei Wuxian grimaced. “I have,” he said dryly. “That is… how did Wen Yuan say it? Ah. A hard pass.”

Nie Huaisang and Gao Huiqing both gaped at him, although from the hint of amusement on Lan Wangji’s part, he’d already known about this travesty. “You don’t like coffee?”

“It is bitter,” Wei Wuxian said with a shudder. “No.” With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the topic. “But tools… It is not a tool, but robes – many sects added wards to the outside robes, for protection.”

Gao Huiqing’s eyes went even wider at that, and Nie Huaisang saw the man’s fingers twitch on the stylus he was holding. But he cleared his throat and simply said, “I apologize for the interruption, but… if you want to be comfortable moving, it would help to see your range of motion.”

“Similar to what you and Nie Mingjue did in the first medical exam,” Lan Wangji supplied when Wei Wuxian glanced at him for clarification.

Wei Wuxian nodded and obligingly let Gao Huiqing direct him through a series of stretches that… okay, that maybe wasn’t circus-performer levels of obscene but it was at least ballet dancer levels. Which made sense in terms of muscle control and strength, but still. Clearly there was no fairness in the universe.

Although watching the way Lan Wangji was attempting to simultaneously not watch and still trying to stab Gao Huiqing with his eyes made up for it!

“Hm. So you will need either loose-fitting clothing that can accommodate, or fitted material that will stretch as needed,” Gao Huiqing murmured, jotting some more notes. “The former would be more like the clothing you are familiar with, but would you like to experiment with the latter?” He smiled wryly. “I assure you that I will keep the designs in line with your preferences for modesty.”

“Modesty…?” Undershirt back in place, Wei Wuxian glanced at Lan Wangji, who murmured something. The cultivator laughed in response before he turned back to Gao Huiqing, rueful amusement sparkling in his eyes. “I knew many who would say I did not have modesty… but it appears that I do,” he said sheepishly as he finished shrugging the button-up back on. “But… yes. I will at least try.”

Gao Huiqing nodded, then set his tablet aside and went to a cabinet behind his desk. “Next is material,” he explained, pulling out several large collections of fabric swatches. “Look through these and tell me if there is a material or a color that particularly appeals to you, or that you don’t like.” He hesitated, eyeing the heavy bun that was Wei Wuxian’s go-to method of hiding his hair in public. “Ah… I should have asked. Your hair is long – do you prefer it up like that, or loose? I know that in the ice…” He hesitated, obviously feeling awkward about referring to that.

Wei Wuxian lightly touched the bun. “I prefer… up and loose, I think it would be? But I know that long hair is not common. It would be noticeable, which we do not want, correct?”

“We do not want to draw attention for now,” Lan Wangji said. “But… eventually it will not matter as much.”

Gao Huiqing nodded. “As I said to Professor Lan, you will not look good if you are uncomfortable. It will be best to start with a style that you find familiar and comfortable first. Would you be willing to show me your preferred style?”

Wei Wuxian raised his eyebrows, but shrugged and reached back to pull out the hairstick holding the bun in place – Nie Huaisang freely admitted that he had no idea how that even worked, given that Wei Wuxian’s hair had to be close to a meter long!

It did make for a very distinctive look, especially after Wei Wuxian retied it into the high tail he’d had in the ice. Distinctive and dramatic; by the time Gao Huiqing had directed him through a series of motions to observe how Wei Wuxian moved to keep that long black banner out of the way and sent him back to looking at the fabric samples, the tailor’s eyes were glinting with the focused enthusiasm of a man with plans.

“Regarding formalwear,” he said, looking at Nie Huaisang after he finished jotting a few notes, while Wei Wuxian bundled his hair up again. “For Professor Lan, I believe that a classic design will suit your purposes, and he would carry it well. But for Wei Wuxian, I assume you would like something more striking. A blend of modern and historic?”

Nie Huaisang grinned. “Well, any occasion involving formalwear is going to be after the big reveal goes public, so we might as well lean into it and find him something with character.” He turned his phone around to show Gao Huiqing the photo he’d pulled up. “We did get him this, for when he has to deal with the rest of the project on an official basis.”

Not that they’d really gotten the chance to leverage it, given everything that had gone down immediately after.

Gao Huiqing’s eyebrows shot upward. “Ah,” he said, stepping closer to study the photo. “I believe I am familiar with that designer. Yes, that is a good look; indisputably modern, but it clearly evokes the aesthetic and sense of the robes. A good choice.” He turned to Wei Wuxian, who was holding up a piece of near-sheer white fabric shot through with gold thread with a bemused expression. “These clothes. Did you find them comfortable?”

Wei Wuxian smiled. “Yes!” he said brightly. “Very comfortable. The cloth is very nice.”

To Nie Huaisang’s great amusement, Lan Wangji frowned at the man, then turned to Gao Huiqing. “The jacket is tight across his shoulders,” he said.

Gao Huiqing raised an eyebrow at Wei Wuxian’s sheepish smile, then looked at Nie Huaisang. “May I?” he asked, and after Nie Huaisang handed his phone over with a grin, took a minute to study the photo more closely, zooming in for a better look. “Ah, I see the issue,” he said at last. “If you can bring it in, I believe I can adjust it to fit more comfortably.” He studied the photo a moment longer, then handed it back to Nie Huaisang and looked at Wei Wuxian. “Are there colors that you prefer? I believe this was based on your original clothing – but modern dyes allow us many options.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, looking down at the piles of fabric in front of him. Somehow, Nie Huaisang wasn’t surprised to note that most of the synthetic materials had been set aside as rejects, but the man clearly had a – heh – soft spot for blended fabrics and knits. Although the latter was probably partially a function of the air conditioning in the office, even if Gao Huiqing at least kept his at a less aggressive setting than some. “I noticed!” he said, picking up a swatch of deep, vivid purple and waving it in amusement. “Before, this color? It was very expensive. I know! A piece this big? No one would leave it unused!” He studied it for a long moment, running his fingers over the fabric with an odd sort of wistful look before shaking his head and firmly setting it aside in the reject pile.

“If you like the color, you should ask for it,” Lan Wangji said, a hint of furrow on his brow; apparently he’d noticed that odd look as well. “Do not concern yourself with cost.”

…huh. Flicking away from his email to his notes, Nie Huaisang tapped in a few reminders. Because come to think of it, right now Wei Wuxian had no income and no funds outside the project providing for him and that definitely wasn’t a good look. Bare minimum, they should make sure he was getting a good contractor’s fee for the work he was doing on defusing the archives, and that would also be a good opportunity to introduce him to modern economics and money. Although they’d have to handle that carefully to avoid opening themselves up to accusations of exploitation, but frankly they were going to have to navigate that chink in their ethical armor no matter which way they went…

Meanwhile, Wei Wuxian was shaking his head with a slightly crooked smile. “Purple was the color of the Jiang,” he explained. “It would feel… not right, to wear it now.”

Huh. Not sure what that meant, beyond something complicated. Because as noted, purple was not cheap, and if that was a color for a group that apparently Wei Wuxian thought he couldn’t associate himself with anymore…

Then again, true black and red were also historically very expensive colors, and Nie Huaisang had read that intriguing write-up by the person who’d made those recreated robes; the outer layer may have been faded, but the robes underneath were very good quality.

Although, the man’s boots had definitely seen better days. They should probably do something about that. He’d have to ask Gao Huiqing to recommend a cobbler; Nie Huaisang suspected that transitioning to modern shoes would be much trickier for Wei Wuxian than modern clothes.

Gao Huiqing, meanwhile, was going through the swatches that Wei Wuxian had flagged as ones he liked, taking notes and occasionally checking with Wei Wuxian about what aspects appealed the most – texture? Weight? Color?

As he began wrapping up his notes, however, the tailor hesitated, casting another, more contemplative look over the fabrics Wei Wuxian had picked out, and Nie Huaisang hid a grin, because he was fairly sure he could guess what the man was thinking.

He was right, of course. “You mentioned wards on clothing,” Gao Huiqing said slowly. “Are there specific materials that you would require?”

 “Good silk is best,” Wei Wuxian agreed. “But… almost anything can work!” Then he hesitated, picking up a piece of what looked like polyester. “...Maybe not this,” he admitted. “It might take some trying.”

“Is that… something that you would do yourself?” Gao Huiqing asked, very casually. “Or is that something you would ask a specialist to do?”

Nie Huaisang mentally cackled. He knew he’d seen the man’s ears twitch when they’d been discussing swords and wards. Which was exactly as he’d planned.

And from the sly grin on Wei Wuxian’s face, he wasn’t the only one who’d been waiting to see if the fishy would nibble the bait. “I do it myself sometimes, yes. But…” He held out a hand expectantly. “Wrist!”

Oh-ho. Now this was an unexpected development, Nie Huaisang noted to himself, watching with interest as Gao Huiqing held out his hand with the stunned look of a deer staring into oncoming headlights – or, more accurately, of an accomplished, practical-minded adult suddenly facing the possibility that a childhood fantasy might actually be attainable.

Taking the offered arm with one hand, Wei Wuxian pulled it closer so he could reach across the table with his other hand to hover over the pulse point of Gao Huiqing’s wrist. After a few seconds – during which there was a criminal lack of glowing special effects, phooey! – he hummed and let go. “It would take much – a lot? – of work. But… one year, maybe two? You can learn.”

Gao Huiqing’s eyes were huge. “Learn… to cultivate?” he… yes, that was definitely a squeak.

“Ah.” Smiling ruefully, Wei Wuxian tilted his hand back and forth. “To become a cultivator, nope. That would take much longer, to build the foundation. But you are… hm.” He pursed his lips. “One who knows the skills that you use very well. That foundation is built. What is left is to clear the meridians to move qi with those skills.”

Oddly enough, that seemed to settle the tailor somewhat. Gao Huiqing straightened and shook his shoulders out for a moment before he said, remarkably level, “I would be very interested in learning that.”

Wei Wuxian’s grin had teeth. “And what is it that I get?”

Aaand that would be his cue. “Ah-ah!” Nie Huaisang chided, stepping between them and shaking his finger at both. “Negotiations are my job! And on that note…” A quick glance confirmed that yes, Lan Wangji had marked several pages in the references he’d been given, and he grinned. “I do believe we’re done with you two for now! Go make Lan Wangji show you around the city for a while!” He waved a hand at the professor. “Go ahead and take the car; I have some other errands to run, so I’ll take the bus back. Shoo, shoo!”

Lan Wangji huffed, but rose from his chair. When he glanced at Gao Huiqing, the man sighed, but waved Lan Wangji on.

Once the door closed behind the pair, Nie Huaisang grinned. “So! Shall we discuss what services you’ll be interested in providing?” he asked brightly. And smirked inwardly, because if he couldn’t get the price down to cost of materials after that, then he wasn’t a Nie!

OMAKE:

NHS: “Hmmm, skin-tight gymnastics clothes or form-hugging jeans, which will melt more brains? …obviously the only correct answer is both!”

NOTES:

Wei Wuxian is definitely thinking about the fact that if you’re going to recreate cultivation, you should probably recreate the support staff arts as well… (As is Nie Huaisang!)

The whole thing about a significant part of conversation being either nonverbal or based on your ability to fill in the bits you didn’t quite hear? Speaking from experience, nothing drives that home so hard as trying to talk on the phone in your second language!

And yes, Nie Huaisang was absolutely aiming to melt Lan Wangji’s brain with the athleisure comment. (And he’s also punching the jealous territoriality buttons so that all he has to do is make noises about Wei Wuxian going in front of cameras alone, and Lan Wangji will cave to getting a fitting as well.)

I admit, one of the interesting parts of this chapter was that while the dislike of fashion that Lan Wangji expresses feels very consistent with his character, it’s something that only works with a modern AU. Because for all that the Lan asceticism extends to their clothing (something that the adaptations and a lot of fandom tends to forget in favor of Pretty Costumes – and yes, I’m well aware that I have no right to throw stones on that front!), clothing really is an intrinsic part of power and status. In fact, I suspect that the Lan clan’s asceticism developed from its initial asceticism to become a kind of reverse snobbery…

As for the tailor… heh. My plot bunnies were cackling at the thought that Nie Huaisang would absolutely get a kick out of dressing Wei Wuxian up, and the next thing I knew, Gao Huiqing had pretty much written himself and demanded an appearance.

Besides. It was way too much fun writing the whole starry-eyed must be cool and professional but OMG OMG OMG reaction. Especially when, let’s be real, that would be all of us…

Fun side note: the novel actually gives us next to nothing regarding Wei Wuxian’s appearance. So far as I recall, all we get is his height (notes in the side stories), that he’s wearing black when he resurfaces after the Burial Mounds and at the Flower Banquet, and that he’s very good looking in both bodies (although apparently Mo Xuanyu is more on the “cute” side rather than classically handsome). That’s pretty much it; even that signature red ribbon only comes up in the post-novel side stories! But while I’m using the donghua for appearances, logically Wei Wuxian should normally have worn Jiang colors. But this is post-Sunshot, post-Burial Mounds Wei Wuxian… and, well, a signature image is a signature image!

Although, speaking of? One of the things that always amuses me when fanworks linger on Lan Wangji’s powerful muscles and how he is “built like a brick sh*thouse”… is that, canonically, he’s not. We get an actual description of his physique in the tree-jump scene in chapter 87, where he’s described as “slender” and looking like “quite the scholarly young master.” It’s quite explicit that he looks this way despite his actual strength.

For the curious – in this setting, Wei Wuxian absolutely has the edge on Lan Wangji in terms of both musculature and functional strength, because Lan Wangji is not a trained athlete and Wei Wuxian for all intents and purposes is. And given what he pulls off without a core, his original body must have been on par with Lan Wangji in canon!

(Also, yes. The high definition of muscles you tend to see on actors in action movies today? I’ve read that they achieve that effect in part by not drinking anything before the shoot as well as actual workouts. Dehydration is apparently supposed to be sexy…?)

Also, fun historic tidbit: according to Mark Lewis’s China Between Empires, the discovery of gunpowder was the result of attempts to develop an artificial form of cinnabar. So given the setup of cultivation sects… yep, seems entirely possible that cultivators stumbled across that first!

60 kmh = about 37 mph. That appears to be a pretty standard side-road speed in China, based largely on a quick Wikipedia skim!

LovePsycho on Tumblr is the one who pointed out that, given what we know of their preferences regarding bitter flavors? Contrary to… probably every modern AU I’ve ever read, Wei Wuxian would despise coffee, while Lan Wangji would probably love it. Headcanon accepted!

(I freely admit that there’s an element of projection as well; I hate the taste of coffee. I don’t even like coffee flavored candy or chocolates with coffee-flavored crème filling. I don’t even like the smell. Which makes it really irritating when people put hot water for tea in pots normally used for coffee, because the coffee taste gets into the water and yetch… ahem.)

And while I know a lot of people were gleefully looking forward to Wei Wuxian on social media… well. Bare minimum, he’s going to need a lot more language practice and acculturation before the vast majority of anything would even make sense to him. (Think about, oh, various posts commenting on political parties. Now think about how much background information is backed into those!)

But on top of that… Honestly? I don’t think a Wei Wuxian from the sixth century would find social media particularly appealing.

Among other things, it’s a communication tool – but who would he even communicate with? Everyone he knows is right there. Maybe as an information-gathering tool… but bear in mind that what goes on in social media is, fundamentally, gossip. And Wei Wuxian knows gossip all too well.

As for posting anything himself? Wei Wuxian lived in a world where a moment’s vulnerability in the wrong time or wrong place or wrong person could have devastating consequences. Where he had to calculate every word and action. Yes, he crossed lines – but only when he judged the consequences worth it. He is guarded about his thoughts and feelings… but he hides it with smiles and misdirection and deflection. Add in the invasive media storm he's going to be facing, and... yeah. I suspect he'd lean on the "I am from the ancient past, I know nothing about this interwebs thing!" just for a modicum of privacy!

(Well. Maybe if he had an absolutely awesome husband to gush about…)

Put simply… Wei Wuxian isn’t a netizen. His relationship to the internet and social media is going to look very different than that of someone who grew grow up with the internet just being there. He’s looking at it from the outside. And, personally? I think he’d find the technology fascinating… but I don’t think he’d be all that impressed by the content. (Especially once he finds out about the level of censorship involved in Chinese social media!)

(And I freely admit that this interpretation is influenced by my own choice to stay away from social media, just as someone who enjoys and is embedded in it would probably have the opposite interpretation! Red of Overly Sarcastic Productions actually has an awesome analysis on how modern technology and its mentality gets projected backwards in fantasy and science fiction…)

Chapter Text

Well, that was interesting!

Wei Wuxian was still chuckling to himself when Lan Wangji opened the door to reveal that they’d finally returned to the ground level. Lan Wangji had retreated from Guo Huiqing’s office with all the haste of a startled cat!

For his own part, Wei Wuxian was a little disappointed that they hadn’t stayed; he would have liked to watch and see how haggling worked in this new age, especially since Wen Yuan had mentioned that it wasn’t as common anymore outside of certain contexts. On the other hand, it was plainly obvious that he was one of the bargaining chips. Which was…

Well. It struck a little closer to home than he liked. He was well aware that no few of the offers of aid extended to Lotus Pier had been made with an eye to getting access to the creator of the ghost path. Which had done nothing to soothe Jiang Cheng’s bristling bitterness after the war. So while he would have liked to stay and watch Nie Huaisang at work… Lan Wangji wasn’t the only one just as glad to escape.

Besides – exploring!

“Lan Zhan!” he said brightly, and grinned when the man glowered at him. Really, he knew he probably shouldn’t use the name – it was more than obvious that Lan Wangji had not appreciated his brother sharing that tidbit. But how could he not be charmed by the image of a chubby-cheeked little Lan Wangji earnestly declaring himself to be Lan Zhan? It was too cute for words!

Besides. That reflexive glower meant that it was a very effective way to get the man’s attention.

“Where will we go next?” he asked, glancing around as they left the stairwell. Ah, they were back in the richly appointed antechamber again; there were the doors leading to the “elevator” over there, and the – guard? manservant? clerk? – at his desk, and the glass-paned doors to the outside. It made for a striking contrast to the bare, utilitarian stairs that they’d taken down in lieu of riding the elevator again. Clearly the stairs were meant for servants, or at the very least not public eyes.

Granted, it was possible that they just hadn’t seen the point in decorating the stairs when more convenient options were available. That had been a very long climb down.

Lan Wangji hesitated. “You are the guest,” he said. “This trip is for you.”

Wei Wuxian huffed in amusement, linking his hands behind his back as they moved toward the exit. “Yes, and that means that everything is new to me,” he said practically. “So anywhere is interesting! But don’t you have places you would like to go?”

After all, Lan Wangji had not left Cloud Recesses since Wei Wuxian had woken out of the ice. Which wouldn’t have been a surprise for someone living in the self-contained and intentionally inaccessible seat of the Gusu Lan clan that he had known, but the school it had become was not nearly so detached from the surrounding community.

“There… is an errand I thought I might do,” Lan Wangji said after a moment. “It would take us to the historic district.”

Wei Wuxian hummed, considering that. He’d assumed that their excursion today would focus on the “modern” part of the city, and that poking around the older districts would have to wait for another time. Then again, it was hard to imagine anything more strikingly not of his time than the spires of glass and steel towering in every direction! And if Lan Wangji had business in the old city anyway…

Grinning, he clapped his hands and bounced a little on his toes. “Then that is decided!” he said brightly. “You lead, I will follow.”

Lan Wangji glanced at him, pausing just before stepping out into the rushing stream of people outside. “Given the distance… it would be best to take the car.”

Ah. Wei Wuxian smiled sheepishly; apparently he hadn’t been quite as subtle as he’d hoped about how twitchy the cramped space had made him.

Then again, Lan Wangji didn’t seem any more pleased by the thought than he was, and the man had taken them straight to the stairs after they’d left Gao Huiqing’s workspace (and that was a strange thought, a whole business occupying a single set of rooms out of many in one building!) without a word from Wei Wuxian. So it was entirely possible that he was not alone in his dislike of sitting in small metal boxes.

Although… by the time they made it back to the building that seemed to serve as a stable for vehicles, Wei Wuxian had to admit that getting off the street was… something of a relief. The crowds were one thing; there might be more people crammed into a limited space than even Lotus Pier had seen outside of festivals, but that was more a difference of degree than of kind. But between the rumbling of the cars, the flashing lights everywhere, and the incessant beeping in a myriad of forms…

He stood by his first impression: these people were far too fond of blinking lights and beeping noises.

It helped that when they reached the car, Lan Wangji directed him to the seat in the front, and demonstrated how to adjust the position of the seat to better accommodate his long legs. Riding in a metal box was bad enough without trying to fold himself into a space that had clearly been designed for a smaller frame.

Still. It was… odd. He was no stranger to cities! He usually liked them, with the hustle and bustle of so many people going about their varied lives. But then again, he was also used to being able to stroll out to hunt pheasants or nap in a tree, rather than the seemingly endless arrays of tall buildings that made even the sky feel hemmed in and claustrophobic. No wonder city folk apparently chose to live up in the heights, no matter how long a climb!

Although, now that he thought about it…

“Lan Zhan,” he said, leaning forward slightly to look up at those towering edifices of glass and steel and the material that apparently was called concrete. “How many people live in Caiyi?” Because if he considered that many people lived in those towers, and set that in his mind’s eye against the sprawling spread of the city seen from a distance…

“Roughly one million, as of the last census,” Lan Wangji said.

For a moment, Wei Wuxian’s mind simply went blank. One million? That was twice the population of Luoyang in the days when the Han capital had been at the height of its influence! And Nie Huaisang had said something about Caiyi being a relatively small city…

“Agriculture has improved greatly,” Lan Wangji said, guiding the car around a turn onto a new road. One that apparently was taking them away from the merchant district; there were fewer of those impossibly colored lighted signs, fewer cars and people… and, Wei Wuxian noted, the height and glossiness of the surrounding buildings was gradually easing. “New technologies, new crops, improved trade between regions… famine is far rarer today. Between better food and better medicine… people live much longer than they once did, and more children survive childhood.”

All of which was an amazing accomplishment, and wonderful in the abstract, but… “I see why you prefer to stay up on the mountain!” he said ruefully. How did people get anything done, living on top of each other?

Although… he’d missed the bustle, as well. Even after the war, the merchants and traders had been slow to return to Lotus Pier, many of them still recovering themselves from the damage done to their trade networks and wary of Jiang Cheng’s new and untried leadership. The same for disciples; their numbers had swelled during and after the war, but it would be… would have been a long time before they had boisterous younger disciples scampering about again. And Yiling had only just managed to make themselves genuinely stable; there hadn’t been time or opportunity to develop the sort of trade goods that might lure merchants to them, particularly when that might invite the disapproval of the victorious clans.

He’d been contemplating offering them his compass, if he could just solve the problem of making it useful for common people. They had the craftspeople with the necessary skills to make it, and it would be practical close to the Burial Mounds anyway. Jiang Cheng had never been interested in the project, so he probably wouldn’t have particularly cared anyway…

Well. That hadn’t happened, for obvious reasons.

I wonder what happened to them.

An odd thought, in a way. Certainly he’d never had any love for the Wen, especially after the fall of Lotus Pier. But… the people who had been exiled to remote and desolate places like Yiling… they weren’t Wen Chao or Wen Ruohan. They’d been branch family members, outer disciples, juniors, elders, servants, artisans… Most of them had been given no more choice in the war than he had.

A’Fang always talked about someday traveling beyond Yiling. I wonder if he ever got the chance?

Something to look into! But later – apparently they’d reached their destination, because Lan Wangji had turned into another one of those odd stables for cars and stopped.

Recalling what had happened the last time, Wei Wuxian was careful to keep his breathing shallow until they managed to get out into the open air again. Even so, he had to exhale hard a few times to chase the reek of rock oil and biting steel and acrid smoke out of his nostrils.

Immediately he noticed a difference. The taste of strange smoke still lingered in the air, but now it was countered by the scent of running water and green things growing. Some of which seemed to be from gardens; looking around, he immediately noticed that the buildings in this area were a much more reasonable two and three stories, and he could make out greenery poking out over walls and around the odd corner.

Buildings of a far more familiar shape and style, he noted with interest. Oh, there were certainly odd elements here and there, but overall the entire setting felt familiar in much the same way as Lan Wangji’s Jingshi, or the area that corresponded to the old Cloud Recesses complex. So it was not a great surprise when Lan Wangji followed a narrower road leading away from the main street and its vehicles, onto a footpath running along a canal.

“This is the older part of the city, then?” he asked, looking around with interest. Oddly, although he saw several boats drift along the canal, none of them were the larger boats meant to move goods to and from the markets, nor were any of them moving much faster than the leisurely pace of the current. In fact, other than a few brightly colored boats that reminded him of floating merchant boats during festivals, most of them seemed like casual pleasure boats, meant to be ridden mostly for the luxury of letting the water carry you.

Then again, why not? It was much quieter here, but he could still hear the rumbling and beeping of the cars on the main streets nearby. Given how fast they were, and the sheer size of some of them… presumably if you actually had somewhere to be or goods to move, you would take one of those, or perhaps one of those odd two-wheeled devices that had been ducking through the crowded cars earlier. Which would leave the canals to those who wanted to drift leisurely away from the hustle, and shops catering to their desires.

“Mn.” Lan Wangji was walking along the walkway, pace steady and measured. “When it was rebuilt following the Cultural Revolution, the city decided to recreate its historic appearance as closely as possible, rather than modernizing.”

Following behind him, Wei Wuxian raised a mental eyebrow. Cultural Revolution? He’d caught a few brief references in passing to that before, but not much in the way of details. But from the way Lan Wangji spoke about it… it was relatively recent, although not too much so.

Fifty years recent, perhaps?

After all, he hadn’t forgotten those fire-ghosts. And if they’d had to rebuild the district…

Although it was interesting that Lan Wangji said that the city had made the decision to recreate the old appearance. For Cloud Recesses, that made sense – it was obvious that the Lan love of tradition was alive and well! But the town didn’t seem so attached to the past… and he couldn’t help but notice that while many of the people walking along the footpaths – nothing like the crowds before, but still a respectable number – moved like Lan Wangji, with the confidence of familiarity, many more were obviously visitors. He even saw a group of young women on the far side of the canal with hair that ranged from deep brown to pale gold, pointing at everything and exclaiming loudly to each other in an unfamiliar language.

He was so busy watching all the people that he almost missed it when Lan Wangji turned into one of the stores that opened onto the walkway. Catching himself, he turned as well, following the man into…

Ah, an instrument maker’s store! Or… perhaps not a maker, there was a wide enough variety that it was possible that the storefront represented the work of multiple crafters. Still, it was familiar enough to what he remembered from his own era that he found himself smiling fondly as he looked about.

Lan Wangji had gone straight to the man standing at the counter in the back – from the sound of it, he was getting new strings for his guqin. Since he seemed occupied for the moment, Wei Wuxian set about exploring the contents.

Although he kept his hands tucked behind his back, because there was an interesting variety to be seen, and he didn’t want to be conspicuously ignorant about anything he should know about.

Granted, most of the contents were familiar enough. He suspected, especially given Lan Wangji’s comments about this being the historic district and the sightseers he’d noticed outside, that this shop intentionally emphasized the more traditional instruments, catering to the overall aesthetic of the area. So he was not at all surprised by the guqin and guzheng, the displays of dizi and xiao…

Although he did have to cackle at the rack holding a beautifully carved pipa, because he vividly remembered old Jiang Yuze inveighing against the fad for the newfangled “barbarian” instrument from the north!

Which just proves that it doesn’t matter what a tradition might be, at some point all traditions were brand new inventions!

Chuckling to himself, Wei Wuxian wandered over to the case with dizi on display. Clearly the shape and structure of the instrument hadn’t really changed much over the centuries, but it was impressive to see the range of materials used now: plenty of bamboo ones, of course, but also metal, jade, even a few made of glass, as well as several of the glossy “plastic” in bright colors that looked by the size to be intended for children.

I wonder what that would sound like? Although if they were meant to be used by rambunctious and often careless children, they’d likely been designed for durability more than tone!

Plus… well, he’d received several very fine dizi made of jade and other materials as gifts over the years, but there was a reason why he still favored Chenqing. Sentiment and familiarity aside, the seasoned bamboo simply sounded better!

Not to mention that most of those gifts had come with strings that had nothing to do with music, and that was a complication he definitely hadn’t needed.

Shaking his head in amusement, he turned away from the case holding the fancier dizi – and he still found that mind-boggling, that people in this new era could make such huge panes of flawless glass cheaply enough that a simple shop like this would have several cases just for display! Glancing around the shop again, he noticed a section that had apparently been set aside for documents of some kind. Intrigued, he glanced back to the desk – yes, Lan Wangji was apparently still speaking to the proprietor, he still had some time to browse – he wandered over. And…

Ah! Music – written music! …or at least, that was what he assumed it was? One section had pieces written in what was recognizably the Gongche system, even if it seemed to have been altered slightly over the centuries. But there were also whole shelves of books featuring numbers and dashes, or a strange structure of five lines festooned with dots and symbols that he knew had to be music in some form, because he’d seen Lan Wangji looking at similar texts when experimenting with his guqin.

“Are you interested in anything in particular?”

Wei Wuxian looked up from the book he’d been flipping through – not that he could actually make heads or tails of the odd symbols, but the brightly colored picture on the cover had caught his eye, especially because he really wanted to know why someone had drawn a bunch of cats playing instruments – and grinned at Lan Wangji. “All of it!”

That scored him a flat stare, and he laughed. Honestly, all was probably an overstatement. But he was curious! Wen Yuan’s “earbuds” were not that soundproof, after all, so he’d had plenty of opportunity to catch bits and snatches of the music of this time, and it ranged from familiar to mind-bogglingly bizarre – and he’d heard some very odd music in his time.

Plus, he was pretty sure he’d spotted another book of music with a cover that looked a lot like the illustrations in Wen Yuan’s xianxia novel, and he was really curious to hear what the people of this time believed musical cultivation should sound like.

Which. Catching Lan Wangji’s eye, he lifted the book he was holding slightly, drawing attention to those odd lines and dots, and raised his eyebrows.

Lan Wangji glanced at the proprietor of the store for a moment. “That is a musical notation system from Europe,” he said, apparently satisfied that the man was sufficiently occupied to not be eavesdropping – although he did lower his voice. “It is designed so that any musician can repeat the exact pitch and length of a note precisely.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. And then grinned fiercely, latching on to Lan Wangji’s arm. “You are going to show me how to read it, yes?” he demanded.

Lan Wangji gave him a look that was too deadpan to be anything but amused. “You are perfectly capable of mastering songs by ear. After hearing them once.”

Wei Wuxian huffed, waving an impatient hand. Yes, he could, and it had given the stodgy old Lans a conniption when it finally sank in that there wasn’t much point in secret songs when anyone with an ear could hear them – although he thought Lan Yi would approve of the fact that it meant he had the knowledge available to pass on to her descendant. But. “That is not the point!” he insisted. “You can write music!”

And that had possibilities. After all… talismans drew their power from the transformation of words and language into written symbols. So if you could also write music…

Setting that intriguing possibility aside for later exploration, Wei Wuxian grinned at Lan Wangji. “Is your errand done, then? Where do we go next?”

Lan Wangji considered him. “Would you be interested in a light meal?”

Ooo.

He actually wasn’t particularly hungry, to be honest. After several years of living on the barest basic rations he could trade for in Yiling, supplemented by what game and forage he could scrounge out of the Burial Mounds – not exactly an abundance, but enough to get by – and using inedia as required to stretch his supplies, he was still getting used to the sheer abundance of food available in this time. Not to mention that even foods that Lan Wangji considered very basic were more varied, flavorful and rich than some of the foods that the Jiang had served at festivals and feasts!

But when they’d discussed their plans last evening, Wen Yuan had been insistent that they try the restaurants in Caiyi. And after seeing what Lan Wangji considered basic? He definitely wanted to see what was considered special!

Lan Wangji didn’t smile, but Wei Wuxian did get a sense of indulgent amusement as the man led the way out of the store and out onto the walkway along the canal again.

Wei Wuxian watched the storefronts with interest now, gauging them against his memories of Caiyi’s canals and his growing understanding of what Lan Wangji meant when he called this a historic district. Some of it, he could guess: the buildings were all of a particular look, distinct from the “modern” area of the tailor’s workplace. This felt far more like the market district of a wealthy city, with shops open along the ground level to display their wares to passersby. But oddly, there were only shops and storefronts, all of which seemed to be established businesses run by local residents; he didn’t see any peddler’s stalls or itinerant merchants hawking their goods.

“There are areas set aside for open markets, but temporary stalls are prohibited in this area,” Lan Wangji said, when Wei Wuxian commented on it.

Well. That wasn’t so different, he supposed. It would have the benefit of making it easier to find things, and from the perspective of the town it would be far easier to keep an eye on business and crack down on any trouble before it got started… and, presumably to ensure that those in power got their cut. Although he had to imagine that the competition for space and customers would be fierce; no setting up on a quieter corner near an established shop to take advantage of the flow of regular clientele.

Not to mention… “Prohibited?” he asked curiously.

Lan Wangji nodded. “They were considered… problematic. This area is popular with tourists – people who travel to distant places to experience things that are new or famous. Tourists are often inclined to spend money, but they frequently expect a specific experience, so areas that cater to them tend to be more… curated.”

Interesting. He’d gotten the vague impression that the peripatetic lifestyle of the wandering peddler or rogue cultivator was… less sustainable in this new age, despite the relative ease and speed of travel. Apparently, it was not entirely so – although it did seem rather reversed, with traveling customers coming to local merchants, rather than the other way around!

Was that a side effect of travel being so much faster? Or maybe the trade networks had changed enough that there was less need for smaller merchants to fill the gaps?

Meanwhile, they’d apparently reached their next destination; Lan Wangji had opened the door to another shop and was patiently holding it open for him. Which was interesting – they’d passed several small restaurants already, but they’d all been open to the walkway, with roofs to keep the sun off and sliding doors for when the shop closed. In fact, other than the instrument store they’d visited earlier, fully enclosed shops were more the exception than the norm…

Stepping into the store, Wei Wuxian froze. Based on Lan Wangji’s earlier question, he had assumed that they were headed for a food vendor of some kind. Instead…

Books!

Rows upon rows of shelves absolutely filled with books, books and more books, and a staircase on one side which implied that there were even more on the next level, and…

Vaguely, Wei Wuxian noted the door swinging closed behind him. Not that he was paying attention. Distractedly, he raised a finger. “Your pardon,” he told Lan Wangji absently, not actually looking at the man. Or blinking.

And then proceeded to dive in and lose himself in all the books.

Well. Not completely lose himself; thankfully, between the history books and the novel and the ongoing translation games he and Wen Yuan were playing with the poetry book, he was familiar enough with the new modified characters – and had enough vocabulary – to quickly figure out some of the basics of the organization system, and he knew enough to puzzle out more from context and guesswork. But it wasn’t enough to browse, not when he was still relying on educated guesses half the time, which was almost physically painful. Still. Just skimming was fascinating – if only to see how much there was, and what it was about.

He passed the section dedicated to histories by. Not without regret, but… well. He knew enough to realize how much he didn’t know. And he trusted Lan Wangji and Wen Yuan’s choices regarding what he needed to know on that subject for now. Later, perhaps, he might want to dig deeper into the specifics… but that was a problem for later!

He did find it interesting that the texts dealing with questions about the how and why of the way the world worked seemed to have been fractured into many different areas that were apparently considered wholly distinct from each other. That was…

Well, on the one hand, he could absolutely understand the impulse. How many treatises on cultivation had he read, only to throw up his hands in disgust because they’d been written by people with theories in search of evidence to justify them, rather than the facts in search of theories to explain them? How many people had lectured him at length about how using resentful energy ran against the will of heaven and blithely ignored the fact that resentful energy was part of the world under heaven? But by that same token, he knew very well that what you expected to find shaped your perception of what was happening in front of you. Pretending that they were separate entities seemed… disingenuous. If he had a wuzhu for every idiot blathering about modao when the demonic had absolutely nothing to do with it…

Huh. It looked like anything to do with demons and gods had also been siphoned off into their own category. Odd. And then a whole separate category for yao… Right. People didn’t think those existed anymore. Which remained less weird than disturbing. Either the inherent nature of the universe had changed for some reason, or there was something very wrong. And the inherent nature of the universe tended not to change much!

It was nice that they had the technical manuals set aside, from a practical standpoint… Ooh, there was an entire section set aside just for books about programming! Unfortunately, they were also well past his current reading level. Oh well. He’d just have to pester Wen Yuan about that textbook of his some more!

The section on medicine and healing was a little better; between Wen Yuan and Wen Qing, he’d picked up a fairly thorough grounding in what was apparently “Western” medical lore and practice. Although he did find it interesting that he also recognized many references from the work that he and Lan Wangji had been doing on translating cultivation terms to the language of this time. Apparently the lore of cultivation had continued to linger in medical theory, which made a kind of sense…

Although. Um. Yikes. He really hoped that some of it hadn’t, there were definitely aspects of cultivation that weren’t exactly safe for the untrained person.

And that wasn’t even getting into the gloriously dizzying variety of fiction and poetry and…

Standing back for a moment to catch his breath, a startling thought occurred to him. Given the number of shelves, and the number of books on those shelves, and the sheer amount of text that could be crammed into those books thanks to the new printing technologies…

This little store – and there was not a doubt in his mind that this was small as such stores went, after seeing the other area of the city – had more knowledge inside its walls than had been stored in the entire library of the Gusu Lan, even before the war!

It did make him wonder. One of the advantages of a junzi’s education was that everyone of a certain level had a shared base of knowledge to reference. But he’d seen at least three different annotations of the Shi Jing on those shelves. What did people do, when they didn’t even share the same basis for wordplay?

Turning to ask Lan Wangji, Wei Wuxian belatedly realized that he had been following him the whole time, amber eyes warm and amused in an otherwise expressionless face. Huffing, Wei Wuxian wrinkled his nose at the man and didn’t bother to even try to apologize, because frankly if Lan Wangji had brought him to a place like this and not expected him to get thoroughly distracted, then he had not been paying attention over the past month and there was simply no hope for the man.

Although now he was curious. “You mentioned food?” he prompted. Because while books were glorious, he was fairly certain they were not exactly edible!

Nodding, Lan Wangji turned and began to make his way towards the back of the store. Intrigued, Wei Wuxian followed, until they rounded a line of shelves and he found himself stopping and staring yet again, because there was a restaurant inside the bookstore. That was…

Actually, he had to wrestle with himself for a moment, because on the one hand, being able to sit down with tea and a meal and a new book? That was brilliant, why hadn’t anyone done that before?

Except he knew why, because books were fragile and expensive, even assuming you even could lay hands on the one you wanted, and only a fool would endanger one by casually eating while you read it, and yes he did understand that things were very different in this time but still!

A light touch on his elbow made him blink, drawn out of his thoughts as much by the fact that Lan Wangji had actually initiated contact for once as by the touch itself. “I will order,” Lan Wangji said, nodding to the counter running along one side of the area set aside for tables. Several people were already there, one talking to someone on the other side, several apparently waiting, and a young couple looking at a display on the wall behind the counter featuring both written descriptions and pictures, presumably of the food on offer. Information and temptation in one move – sneaky!

Although he wasn’t sure what to make of the semi-opaque drinks of various colors with unidentifiable dark globs at the bottom that he saw on more than a few tables as he scanned the room for an open table. Although people did appear to be drinking from them with evident enjoyment? Still, most of the other things he saw were at least identifiable in context if not specifics; this seemed to be primarily a tea shop – or at least a drinks shop – that also served small snacks to accompany the drinks. Which probably explained why Lan Wangji had asked about a light meal.

By the time Lan Wangji rejoined him, Wei Wuxian had claimed a small table with seating for two close to the wall that offered a clear view of both the dining area, the book store, and the windows looking out at the street on the other side of the building from the canal – which was an interesting detail that probably explained why the store didn’t really follow the aesthetic of the historic district in its interior, if it catered to that street as well. Which also made the location perfect for people-watching and an effective way of catching any would-be eavesdroppers!

Although avoiding attention was definitely a lost cause from the moment they’d walked in, he admitted wryly. They were both noticeably taller than average, and Lan Wangji was… well, Lan Wangji, how could anyone not notice the man? Small wonder so many eyes were on them as Lan Wangji set down a tray and took the other seat.

Looking at the contents of the tray, Wei Wuxian made a face at the black liquid in one ceramic mug and pointedly moved it over to Lan Wangji’s side of the table. He had tried coffee once, and so far as he cared that had been more than enough. The mug of tea, he claimed for himself, as Lan Wangji similarly distributed the two shallow bowls on the tray.

Wei Wuxian eyed the contents curiously. Both were semi-spherical lumps of… something, but that was about it for what he could identify. The one in front of him was a vivid pink, while the one in front of Lan Wangji was…

Huh. He sincerely hoped that it wasn’t actually what his first baffled impression came up with, because while he recognized that regional cuisines could get extremely odd – especially when the gentry started getting competitive – some things really did not belong on a plate.

Still, Lan Wangji had picked up the long-handled, delicate spoon that came with the dish and dug a portion of the brown lump out – huh, so it was all one semi-solid mass – and eaten it without hesitation, so… With a mental shrug, Wei Wuxian scooped up some of his own pink stuff and popped it in his mouth.

Cold!

Followed by a burst of sweet tartness with an intense fruity flavor that he didn’t recognize but very much liked. Humming appreciatively, he poked at the pink substance with his spoon, noting scraps of red that were probably from the original fruit, as well as tiny seeds here and there. Interesting that they’d left those in; perhaps they were considered part of the experience. “What is this?” he asked, scooping up another spoonful and studying it for a moment. Ah, it was frozen – he could see the sheen where the outer surface was beginning to melt, and the beginnings of a red puddle forming around the bottom of the semisphere in the bowl.

“Sorbet,” Lan Wangji explained, setting his spoon down to speak. “Fruit juice frozen while churned to keep it soft. The flavor is strawberry.”

Wei Wuxian popped his own spoon into his mouth, letting it melt over his tongue so he could appreciate the flavor. “Strawberry?” he echoed curiously, slightly muffled by speaking around the spoon.

“A fruit. You would not be familiar with it; it is actually a hybrid and was only developed… slightly less than three hundred years ago.”

Ah! That did explain why he didn’t recognize the flavor. Interesting to think of fruit as something that could be created.

Speaking of… He eyed Lan Wangji’s brown sorbet. “And what is that?”

“Chocolate,” the man answered. “It is made from the seeds of a tree from the Americas; you would not be familiar with it, either.” He hesitated. “Would you like to try it?”

Americas…? Ah, right, the lands on the far side of the world. They hadn’t talked much about them yet, but Wen Yuan had shown him a modern image of the world on his computer, when explaining the technology used to make those incredible maps in his books.

Wei Wuxian looked pointedly at the mug next to Lan Wangji. “Is it anything like coffee?” he asked warily. Because he was curious, but!

“Chocolate can be bitter,” Lan Wangji allowed. “But many who dislike coffee are fond of it.” He scooped out a small portion with his spoon and gestured with it towards Wei Wuxian’s bowl in silent offering.

Wei Wuxian mentally shrugged, grinned mischievously, and easily caught Lan Wangji’s wrist with his hand to guide the proffered spoon straight into his mouth.

Huh! He closed his eyes to concentrate on the new flavor on his tongue. He could taste the hint of bitterness, yes, but it was mostly sweet and rich, with the bitterness being more a tingling side-note rather than overwhelming.

“Mmm. It is good!” he agreed, opening his eyes – and inwardly bit back a laugh at the rare stunned look on Lan Wangji’s face. Apparently stealing the food straight off someone else’s spoon was a bit brazen even by the relaxed standards of this time!

Chuckling, Wei Wuxian ate another bite of the strawberry, enjoying how the tartness cleared away the lingering taste of the chocolate. “Do you come here often?” he asked curiously.

Lan Wangji seemed to shake himself, as if he’d been lost in thought. “On occasion,” he said. “The bookstore specializes in rarer books, and occasionally hosts special events.” He tilted his head towards the door leading out onto the street. “And it opens onto both the canals and a park.”

Wei Wuxian tilted his head. “Park?” he asked curiously. Surely Lan Wangji wasn’t referring to the hunting grounds kept by high nobles – among other things, Wei Wuxian didn’t think there was enough room in Caiyi for anything like that.

Lan Wangji hesitated for a moment. “I believe it began as a private garden during the Ming dynasty,” he said, carefully precise. “The area was neglected for some time, but when the historic district was established, it was reclaimed as a public green space.”

Amused – that was a very elegant explanation, as he should have expected of Lan Wangji! – Wei Wuxian raised his eyebrows and glanced out the window again. Ah – yes, he could see the branches of trees rising above the wall that ran along the far side of the street. Quite the contrast from all the concrete and glass of before… which was probably the point, in a city where there was no option of wandering out to the periphery when one wanted a break from all the people.

“Would you like to visit it, when we finish here?” Lan Wangji asked.

Wei Wuxian brightened. “Yes! That sounds interesting.”

Granted, the idea of a public garden wasn’t exactly new to him. But he was curious to see how gardening philosophy and aesthetics had changed over the centuries. Lan Wangji’s garden followed the same fundamental ideas that he’d known from his own time, albeit with some fascinating new touches like the little lights, but he already knew Lan Wangji had a soft spot for the ancient!

Taking another bite of his strawberry sorbet, Wei Wuxian eyed Lan Wangji’s chocolate and calculated whether that soft spot would extend to allowing sweets theft. “We can go after we finish. It would be a shame to waste such a nice treat!”

Lan Wangji did not smile, exactly, but there was something indulgently amused in the cast of his eyes as he deliberately pushed his dish to the center of the table, in easy reach for both of them. Wei Wuxian pouted internally – it would have been fun to spar with spoons over it! – but happily helped himself as the man explained, “That is another reason I favor this store. They make the sorbet from fruit, rather than relying on jams or artificial flavorings. And the coffee and chocolate are ethically sourced.”

Huh. That might explain the seeds. It had seemed like a strange oversight not to remove them from a dish that seemed very high quality, but if the standard was to use false fruit (and how did that work?), then including the seeds would be an odd kind of reversed proof of quality. A bit like the Gusu Lan in their plain mourning white amid the brightly colored and embroidered robes of other sects. Which then raised the question… “Ethically sourced?” Ethical he knew, from the conversations they’d had about how he’d come to be at Cloud Recesses and the sort of demands he might face when Lan Wangji had been preparing him to meet Lan Qiren, and his conversations with Wen Qing… but what did that have to do with food sources?

Lan Wangji ate several more bites slowly without answering; familiar by now with the man’s preference for thinking a question over before answering – and of not talking while eating – Wei Wuxian didn’t press him, simply continued nibbling as he looked at the people in the shop.

It was an interesting range of ages. Only one or two families with small children, he noted – actually, very few families in general. Two tables in the center of the dining area had been pushed together to accommodate a large group of girls perhaps a little older than Wen Yuan, talking gleefully as much over as with each other – the noise of which had very nicely covered their own conversation from any awkward eavesdropping. There were a respectable number of elders as well, men and women alike, mostly ensconced with books and drinks with the ease of regulars, although several were looking at tablets or computers, and one spry woman with iron-grey hair and quick hands was… oh, that was knitting! Neat! There was even an elderly pair sharing a single bowl of the sorbet – although that one was green, he wasn’t sure he had the nerve to ask – with the affection of a well-married pair who didn’t mind that the world knew of it, which was simply charming.

In fact, he noted with amusement, pushing the strawberry sorbet to the center in silent offer as well, most of these little tables for two were occupied by couples! Except most of them were much younger than those two, and very obviously still courting rather than wedded.

Lan Wangji finished his most recent bite – strawberry, Wei Wuxian noted – and set the spoon down again. “The expansion of trade has led to what we call economies of scale,” he said. “It is easier to make any one thing more affordable if one makes many such things at once. Unfortunately, this means that control over such goods has come increasingly into the hands of a small number of powerful… merchant houses, I think, is the best way to describe them.”

Ah. He could see where this was going. “And with no other merchants looking to purchase, they can pay as much or as little as they want for materials.”

“In many cases, they have direct control over the production of those materials, as well as the goods,” Lan Wangji said bluntly. “It has led to substantial mistreatment of the people who actually produce them, particularly for materials produced in poorer countries.”

Wei Wuxian smiled humorlessly. Some things really didn’t change, it seemed. He was well familiar with how easy it was for people in a position of power to simply decide that the woes of those with less power did not warrant consideration… or to just conveniently forget such minor details. Especially when there was an advantage to be gained by it.

Dark thoughts, and neither here nor there for the moment! Darting his spoon forward, he stole the last of the chocolate. “So! Ethically sourced means you will not trade with the merchants who do not treat their people well?” he concluded. “As I would expect of Lan Zhan!”

Lan Wangji huffed, but Wei Wuxian thought the man seemed pleased. “It is in many ways a luxury of the wealthy to be able to do so,” he said honestly. “Such systems have made food and clothing and small comforts available to many who could not afford the cost of goods made more equitably.” He began stacking the bowls and mugs back onto the tray as he added, “But neither will the system improve unless there is support for a better way of doing things. I can afford to do so, and thus have a responsibility.”

Wei Wuxian hummed thoughtfully as they both stood up from the table. The luxury part, he understood viscerally; it was easy for those who were wealthy, powerful and safe to cast judgment upon the desperate and vulnerable – in war and trade alike, apparently. But that Lan Wangji saw himself as morally required to make the ethical choice because of his privileged position… Well! Now that was an idea that would make certain people of his past acquaintance very unhappy indeed!

Lan Wangji took the dishes to a receptacle beside the counter, and then looked at Wei Wuxian and tilted his head towards the nearby door to the street. “The park?”

Wei Wuxian grinned broadly. “Yes!” After the morning’s adventures, some time surrounded by the qi of living, growing things was very appealing. And, as previously noted: he was curious!

Lan Wangji very graciously held the door open for him. “Afterwards, is there anywhere you would like to go? My errands are finished.”

Wei Wuxian considered that. He genuinely hadn’t had any particular plans, but given that they were in the area of the old city already… “Is it very far to go to the lake?”

Lan Wangji considered that as they followed the street away from the store and towards a gate in the wall that seemed to be the entrance to the “park.” “Not too far to walk,” he said at last, as they passed through the gate and into the shade of the trees – quite welcome after the concrete and glass, this new structure of cities seemed to hoard the summer heat. “Perhaps two kilometers… roughly four li.”

Wei Wuxian grinned. “Excellent!” he said brightly. “I have been thinking there is something I would like to see about there.”

And speaking of… He looked about as they walked, taking in the scenery. It was interesting; someone had clearly gone to a great deal of trouble to make the space look natural, even though the artificiality of it was obvious to anyone who had ever had to make their way through an actual woodland! The trees had been arranged in copses and groves, all conveniently located away from patches of summer-blooming flowers, but even a quick glance showed that each scatter of trees was all the same age, as if they’d somehow all set root at the same time – a blatant telltale of intentional planting.

In fact, nearly all the trees were about the same age, with some younger ones here and there, and not a single old grandfather tree to be seen. Which made sense, given what Lan Wangji had said about the origins of the park, but it did make the level of deliberate intervention rather obvious, even before the lack of undergrowth that such a young woodland should have.

And then there were the more blatant details, like the very picturesque stream running through a concrete-lined channel. Wei Wuxian was fairly certain that was not something that happened in the wild!

Still. Amusing as the blatant artifice was, it wasn’t a bad effect. It reminded him of the gardens built by scholars who’d become intentional recluses rather than joining on with whatever warlords had reached ascendancy most recently. Initially the idea of a wilderness seclusion had been rather more literal, but as the idea had caught on, more than a few gentry had styled their gardens to a kind of wilderness aesthetic. This had much the same feel, if in a more diffuse manner than, say, the Garden of the Golden Valley.

Not to mention the opposite purpose!, he thought, highly amused, as a young boy ran screeching past with his sister in hot pursuit, one nearly-undone pigtail flapping lopsided on her head suggesting the cause of her ire. He could see their young parents walking at a more sedate pace behind them, plainly inclined to let the two run their energy out – although the mother did visibly panic for a moment when she realized that there was someone else on the path, before Wei Wuxian grinned and waved it off, accompanied by an amused tilt of Lan Wangji’s head. After all, what was childhood for, if not to indulge in the chaos that adults were obligated to give up?

Although he did hope for their sake that the gardener didn’t catch them, because that flower patch would never be the same again. Oops.

He chuckled, once he was sure that they were safely out of earshot. “They’re lucky the Flower Maiden isn’t here. She would not be pleased!”

Lan Wangji looked at him, silently inquiring.

“There was a town I visited once,” Wei Wuxian explained. “They had a very nice flower garden; the Flower Maiden was a spirit that lived in it.” He grinned at the memory. “There was a tradition. Young men would stand in the garden and speak poems! Because if a poem was beautiful enough, she would show her face to them.” He smirked. “I spoke bad poems.”

Lan Wangji gave him a look.

Wei Wuxian laughed. “And I spoke and spoke and spoke until she manifested just to yell at me! So it worked!” He tapped his cheek. “Although people said she was so mad that she did not manifest again for a year.”

That was what they said. Personally, Wei Wuxian had gotten the impression that she’d been as amused by the prank as she was annoyed. People didn’t usually play games with her challenge, after all!

Granted, if anyone had tried to imitate his stunt, she would probably have become extremely unamused, and very quickly. Novelty wore off quickly!

Lan Wangji huffed, shaking his head. Wei Wuxian chuckled, bumping the man with his shoulder. “You probably would not have needed poetry at all!” he told the man cheerfully. “But we simple normal people are different!” He grinned. “We should go there sometime. Perhaps she is still there!”

To his surprise, Lan Wangji simply… stopped short at those words, right in the middle of the path. At a glance, the man’s expression seemed as composed as ever… except that his gaze was fixed on nothing at all.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian said, puzzled. That was not exactly the reaction he’d expected!

“…Do you truly believe she might still be there?” Lan Wangji asked. “Surely after a thousand years her spirit would have passed on.”

Ah! That was right, Lan Wangji probably wouldn’t know the difference just from the behavior alone. He would have to watch that. Wei Wuxian was accustomed to all but the youngest junior disciples and even most common folk understanding that there was more to spirits than ghosts, but that wasn’t necessarily the case here, was it?

“The Flower Maiden was not a ghost!” he chuckled, as Lan Wangji began to walk again. “She was… a flower spirit of some kind, I think. She had cultivated, and became like a human.” He frowned slightly, looking at the park with its young trees. “But if something happened to her garden… She might be gone.”

He hoped not. It would be such a waste for her to have achieved so much, only to be destroyed by some chance fire or drought – or a careless army or would-be gardener. Although he assumed that she at least had the means to make her displeasure known to the latter, at least!

Lan Wangji didn’t say anything to that, although Wei Wuxian had the impression that the man was thinking deeply. Which, well! He had said that the people of this time were under the impression that spirits of any kind were fiction! It did make sense that it might take some time to process the idea that such beings were real. And he knew from experience that the ones who felt they knew the most, struggled the hardest to accept that what they knew might not actually be as true as it had seemed.

So he let the man think and simply enjoyed the stroll. They’d come around to what he assumed was the far side of the park; he could see the wall beyond a line of trees, and beyond them he could hear the noise of the city: beeping, the rumble of vehicles, and…

Huh. That whirrrrr sound was familiar.

Eyes widening with glee, Wei Wuxian spun around to look at his companion. “Lan Zhan! Do you hear that?” he asked eagerly.

Lan Wangji’s lips tightened slightly. “There is a small skate park nearby,” he said stiffly. “It is… a space to practice using the boards.” The man paused, probably taking in Wei Wuxian’s grin, and actually sighed before turning at the next crossing onto a new path, one that appeared to lead towards the wall and presumably the park’s exit.

Wei Wuxian followed, doing his best not to laugh at the man’s reluctance. Like an elder pressed into service to corral rambunctious youngsters unleashed on the market!

Granted, considering that the fellow earlier had very nearly bowled both of them over – and Wei Wuxian might not have caught the exact words shouted at them but by tone alone it had definitely not been an apology! – he did get the feeling that these skateboards were not exactly the sort of thing associated with decorum and dignity.

The “skate park,” when they arrived, was interesting. Very recognizably a training ground, not a garden (did that mean that a “park” was simply a public space for communal use?). The ground was level and open, paved with a surface similar to the roads. But not entirely featureless, either. While the center was open, the edges had a variety of odd features – a rail low to the ground, several platforms and ramps. Which looked odd in comparison to the towering buildings of the main city dominating the sky on one side and the aesthetic of the historic district nearby, but it made a kind of sense. A space like this was anything but historic, and yet it wouldn’t fit in the area of high buildings, so of course it ended up in the no-man’s land between the two.

And what the people using it were doing…

Wei Wuxian grinned. Because the fellow from earlier had certainly seemed skilled enough in his balance and maneuvering – hence why Wei Wuxian’s mind had jumped to sword flight! But he’d clearly been using the tool as a means of transport, not an end in itself.

These people were doing tricks!

The park was in a slightly sunken area, with a low wall surrounding it; sensible, given the nearby roads and the fact that one of the boards had just gone skidding at high speeds to crash into said wall when its rider attempted something a little too ambitious and parted ways with his board in a spectacular tumble.

Spectacular, but controlled, Wei Wuxian noted with approval as he dropped down to sit on the wall and watch. Someone had made sure these fellows knew the proper way to fall. And, he noted, the boy’s companions checked that he was unhurt first, before launching into the requisite mockery of the failed attempt. A good bunch.

All male, he noted; it stood out, when elsewhere there seemed to be no limits on the sexes mingling. Then again, he doubted the bombast that flew around when young men gathered for anything had changed much. He couldn’t blame the girls if they’d chosen to leave young male idiocy to young male idiots!

As he watched, the group dispersed once their friend was back on his feet, returning to their own training. It was interesting to watch and compare what they were doing to sword flight. Obviously there were definite differences; among other things, the skateboards were far broader than any sword blade, allowing easier balance and more space for adjusting one’s footing. And there was no hilt to shift the center of balance backwards. Not to mention the obvious difference that the boards were ground-bound, and required the rider to gather physical momentum by kicking off the ground or rolling down a ramp first, rather than speed being controlled by qi.

But once they were in motion, the similarities in posture and technique were striking: the upright, centered basic position, the use of shifts in weight for precise movements, the coiled crouch for balance in preparation for a burst of speed or a sudden turn or a flip.

Not that many cultivators even attempted aerial acrobatics. Most of them didn’t see the point of trying. It’s not like any of that will ever be useful for anything! Stop showing off, Wei Wuxian!

Pfft. Wei Wuxian begged to differ. The ability to turn and dart and barrel roll unpredictably in the air had kept him from being pin-cushioned by arrows more than once during the war!

Besides. Just because no one had figured out how to fight in flight yet didn’t mean it was impossible. And it would be useful. Bird yao were bothersome opponents regardless of their capabilities simply because they always controlled the field of battle and could easily retreat far from reach when they chose – and pursuit just turned the pursuers into easy prey in the air. And because qi-infused arrows were another thing that no one had figured out (yet), even a weak flying yao could terrorize a large area for months before it was finally tracked down in its nest.

Which was why he was watching the fellow who’d wiped out so spectacularly with intense interest as he once again tried to launch himself into the air, spin the board under his feet, and then settle onto it again before coming back to earth. Because that wasn’t qi, that was momentum, and if a cultivator could break their qi flow and rely on momentum alone rather than going immediately into free fall… even if it wasn’t enough to fight, freeing the hands and qi for just a few seconds would make saving a snatched victim much more possible.

Besides. That looked like fun! And contrary to what certain parties seemed to think, fun was not in any way antithetical to cultivation. If it demanded focus, balance, agility, confidence and skill… who cared if you enjoyed yourself along the way?

Speaking of, the young man he’d been watching had just finally successfully landed his trick, throwing his fists in the air with a cheer as he rode out the leftover momentum in an arcing curve around the park. Laughing, Wei Wuxian applauded enthusiastically.

From the fierce grin he got in response, the youth didn’t mind having an audience at all. “Did you see that? Perfect three-sixty flip! Woo!”

Wei Wuxian grinned, remembering the glee of every disciple he’d ever taught after mastering a tricky technique. “I saw!” he agreed. “Good job on your balance.”

The youth blinked, then leaned sharply to the side to bring his board around in a sharp turn, carrying him over to where Wei Wuxian was perched on the wall. By the time he actually reached it, his momentum had slowed enough that he simply stepped off the board, one toe catching the raised section at the end and flipping it up to where he could catch it with his hand – very neat!

The young man’s eyes, meanwhile, were sharp and interested as he peered at Wei Wuxian. “You skateboard?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

Wei Wuxian chuckled. “Nope! I just know how to watch people move. It looks fun, though!”

The youth blinked. “You from the country or something?”

Ah, right. He did have an accent, after all. “First time in the city,” he admitted cheerfully, laughing internally. After all, it wasn’t really a lie, given that the old Caiyi probably wouldn’t even count as a city by the standards of this time!

The young man’s lips pursed slightly as he gave Wei Wuxian an assessing look. “Want to try it?” he asked, nodding to the board in his hand.

Ah, now that was a familiar tone! Half wanting to share something he enjoyed, half wanting to show off just how much skill it really took.

Wei Wuxian turned to look up at Lan Wangji, who was standing behind him, far too dignified to sit on a wall with his feet dangling in the air. From the subtle tightness of the man’s lips at Wei Wuxian’s hopeful expression, he was anything but pleased by this turn of events – but he didn’t actually say no, just gave a resigned tilt of his head.

Good enough! Grinning, Wei Wuxian hopped down from the wall to join the skateboarder.

“Okay. I’m Shen Jian, by the way,” the young man said, and then continued without waiting for Wei Wuxian to introduce himself in turn, “So the first step is balancing…”

That part was easy; as Wei Wuxian had already observed, it wasn’t particularly different from the basic stance in sword flight, although the skateboard wasn’t quite as long as Suibian. It did take a minute to get used to the feel of it, though; a sword didn’t vibrate in flight unless there were some very tricky winds involved, or gradually lose momentum on its own. After a fumble or two when the wrong reflexes kicked in, however, he settled into the differences, and then Shen Jian walked him through the techniques for turning, stopping, and then – when it was clear Wei Wuxian had a strong grasp of the basics – how to spin the board in a quick turn, and how to do a very simple jump.

After a few rounds and some time to experiment, Wei Wuxian felt confident in his understanding of the board and the way it moved on the ground and in the air. Idly kicking it up on one end to spin in place – a familiar trick from sword flight, but the added unpredictability of the wheels and the fact that he had to rely entirely on momentum rather than qi was an interesting challenge, and one that made the device even better as a potential training tool – he eyed a nearby ramp thoughtfully.

“Want to try?” Shen Jian asked. “Normally I’d say practice more first, but honestly you’ve got this on the landings, and that’s the hard part. You can take it easy the first round—”

Wei Wuxian grinned. Backed up. Launched.

Midair, he tucked down, caught the board with a hand, and somersaulted.

Which… that part went fine; he had more than enough height and momentum to carry through the roll and straighten out for the landing…

Except that he reflexively slid his back foot back to anchor on the hilt that wasn’t there. And slipped off the board entirely.

Oops. Right. Well then.

A second flip in the air to kill his forward momentum, and Wei Wuxian landed on his feet, catching the skateboard with a rueful laugh. “Aaah… that is a trick that may take more practice,” he said ruefully.

Shen Jian stared at him – along with more than a few of the other youths scattered across the skate park.

Hm… That might have been a little too flashy. Although really, he’d only cheated with qi a little bit!

“…you’ve seriously never done this before?” Shen Jian blurted. “Are you an acrobat or something?”

Huh. Awkward; he didn’t know that word and he didn’t want to lie when he didn’t even know what he was lying about, that was a good way to get caught, so… “Or something!” he said cheerfully. Really, that was such a wonderfully vague turn of phrase!

Shen Jian blinked – then, unexpectedly, his face brightened with sudden understanding. “Ooh,” he said with a knowing nod. “Parkour guy, huh?”

Erm. That also was an unfamiliar term. Probably best to just smile and nod and hope that would be the end of it…

“Wei Ying.”

Ah ha, excellent, an escape route! If a rather irate one, going by the way Lan Wangji had practically growled his name. Grinning, Wei Wuxian handed the board back to Shen Jian. “Thank you! That was fun. But I think I have worried my friend a bit too much today.”

A quick wave goodbye – the new informality of this era was definitely convenient for making a quick escape without actually being rude – and he trotted back to where Lan Wangji was waiting.

Jumping up over the wall, he looked at Lan Wangji, and winced. The man’s expression was, of course, perfectly composed, but he was definitely pale behind that flat stare, and he turned and stalked away with a determined stride.

Wei Wuxian followed ruefully. Apparently he’d given Lan Wangji a bigger scare than he’d realized. Which was fair, that last jump had been a bit scary; there were ways to mitigate a fall, but they required having enough height and momentum to control your landing. Back when he’d been experimenting with aerial stunts, he’d learned that the safest place to practice was actually up high – high enough to summon his sword back and remount before he got anywhere near the ground. Because below a certain point, a fall was a fall, and falling on concrete would definitely hurt!

Then again, in a way that was why he’d done it that way. He’d fallen plenty of times, after all. And he’d learned as a child that the scariest moment was exactly the moment you could least afford to flinch or you would fall.

Still. Lan Wangji was not a cultivator, likely wasn’t used to stunts like that, and on a certain level he was responsible for Wei Wuxian, after all. No wonder he was upset!

Speeding up slightly to come up alongside Lan Wangji, he leaned forward to peer up into the man’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to make you worry.”

For a moment, he thought Lan Wangji would just ignore him, although he did at least slow his pace a little. Then, unexpectedly, Lan Wangji said, “Your hair.”

Wei Wuxian blinked. “Eh?” he said, reflexively reaching up.

Lan Wangji’s fingers twitched, as if fighting the urge to reach out himself. “Your hair is coming loose,” he clarified.

Feeling the way his bundled hair shifted back and forth, tugging oddly at the places it was still secure, Wei Wuxian made a face. He should have expected that, he supposed. There was only so much one could do to keep it in place when one spent one’s time jumping and tumbling; there was a reason why he’d always favored a high tail, rather than a guan.

Not to mention that it rather neatly let him dodge Madam Yu’s accusations of giving himself airs if he wore a guan of fine quality and of making Yunmeng Jiang look bad if he didn’t. Not that she ever had a shortage of complaints no matter what he did, but that one had always been particularly ridiculous, since he distinctly recalled both complaints being aimed at the same guan at least once. On the same day, even.

So it wasn’t surprising that the bun was coming loose again, especially since he hadn’t exactly been all that careful putting it back up after their visit to Gao Huiqing. Huffing, Wei Wuxian quickly glanced around. Satisfied that – for the moment at least – the wall of the park was keeping them out of anyone’s sight, he quickly shook his hair out and began finger-combing it back into order again.

Lan Wangji continued walking, although he slowed his pace further to allow for Wei Wuxian’s distraction as he bundled his hair back up again. The man was still silent, but now that Wei Wuxian was paying closer attention, that heavy quiet seemed less angry and more… broody.