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Chapter Text

"I'm just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control
Beyond my control, we all need control
I need control, we all need control"

It had been two, three, maybe four months...Time, with its implacable precision, had become tangled. A tight knot, woven with the patience of the spider's web and the suffocating embrace of the vine. Lan Qiren felt the weight on his shoulders, in his temples, in his bones. He was trapped in that weaving, an insect that flapped its wings while invisible threads wrapped around it, a slow and inexorable trap that would not break. The days had become blurry, a procession of cold dawns and silent nights, without the grace of change, without the relief of the end. Every morning was identical to the previous one, every evening ended in the same suffocating silence. There was nothing new. Nothing to expect. Only time, which encrusted itself on things like mold on the beams of an abandoned temple.

Ever since the Guanyin Temple had collapsed under the weight of its inconvenient truths, the cultivation world had remained suspended in an unnatural silence, similar to the calm before a storm that no one had the courage to invoke. The Lan clan was no exception. The void had crept in between the corridors, between the blue lanterns and the parchments, enveloping everything in a thin, cutting chill. Its leader—the one who was supposed to be a guide, an example, an immovable pillar—had dissolved in the shadow of his own pain. Lan Xichen wasn't among them anymore, not really. Yet, the thread of time, torn from life itself, was never revealed in its entirety. There was no measure, there was no account. There was no rhythm that could make sense of the emptiness. Perhaps there wasn't even a future that could tidy up the dust of events.

And that dust… Oh, Lan Qiren felt it everywhere. It had insinuated itself between the cracks of the Lan sect, settling on the scrolls of the Rules that he had written with his own hands, on the seals he had engraved, on the ideals he had guarded like a monk watches over his prayer. Yet now, those scrolls seemed emptied, the words engraved on them reduced to a whisper too faint to be heard. He had spent a lifetime carving every rule into the stone of their existence. He had taught his disciples that doctrines were the wind that brought balance, the current that kept the boat from capsizing. He had repeated, without ever getting tired, that righteousness was a straight path, which did not allow for deviations. And now? 

Now he found himself surrounded by shadows and cracks, by a world that had bent under the weight of his own shattered certainties. The corridors of Gusu Lan, which once rang with the disciplined echo of measured footsteps, now seemed emptier, vaster, as if the mountain itself had held its breath. The order remained, yes, but it was an order made of suffocating silence, an illusion of stability that fooled no one. The jade pillars, the soaring roofs, the scrolls carefully lined up on the shelves—everything was in its place, immaculate, perfect. But beneath that pristine surface, the very fabric of the sect frayed, thin as time-worn paper. Lan Qiren felt it. Oh, he felt it. Like the distorted sound of an out-of-tune instrument in an empty pavilion. Like a whispered prayer in a ruined temple. The cracks weren't just in the walls, in the halls, in the rooms that smelled of burning incense and sleepless nights. They were in the hearts of his disciples, in the eyes of the young cultivators who lowered their gaze, uncertain. They were in Lan Xichen's unopened letters, in the thoughts he refused to write, in the responses that never came. 

Ever since the Guanyin Temple had given way, like an ancient book collapsing under the weight of its own yellowing pages, the cultivation world no longer stood on the same stone pillar. The Lan sect, wounded and trembling, seemed suspended in the air, like a parchment without ink. The rigidity of his rules, his duties, his code without love or mercy—everything was shattering. But Lan Qiren could not ignore it: his clan, which should have been the emblem of unshakable discipline, was reduced to a lump of rubble. It was like an old sword, a weapon left in a corner too long. The blade was no longer sharp, but it burned unbearably upon contact, even though it was just an object, even though it was just their tradition. Their tradition... yes. A code engraved in stone, words handed down like prayers, rigid and unchangeable. Yet, now, they seemed like ashes scattered in the wind, a truth that could no longer support the weight of reality. Lan Qiren felt like a calligrapher watching ink dissolve in water: helpless, frustrated, anger burning in his chest like the echo of a shattered bell. Shame tightened his throat like an invisible string.

How could this be? How had this happened? What had remained of what was once sacred?

Lan Xichen, closed in his silence, motionless like a forgotten statue in the temple of a defeated god. Lan Wangji, who had undermined centuries of doctrine with a single act, with a single step beyond the boundary of obedience. And he himself, Lan Qiren, forced to watch as his entire world—everything he had guarded and defended with iron determination—crumbled between his fingers. He never asked for perfection. But loyalty, yes. Loyalty to the rules. To the family. To the sect.  Yet, it wasn't just the white walls of Gusu that exuded emptiness and uncertainty. The gossip spread like an unstoppable wave, a tide that Lan Qiren couldn't pretend not to hear.

Rumors about Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao's relationship—kept hidden like a crab in the sand—had taken on dark undertones after recent tragic developments. They mixed like poison in a glass of clear water, and each whispered word seemed to dig another furrow into Lan Qiren's heart, eventually growing like a poisonous tree in his mind. “It was more than just friendship.”

“Was he blind or just complicit?” .He, who had dedicated his life to keeping the honor of the Lan sect intact, now found himself dealing with this bitter truth, with a secret that had poisoned everything it touched. Lan Xichen, his eldest grandson, his greatest pride and his purest reflection, had been overwhelmed by the storm that he himself had failed to stop. The rumors of that relationship—intimate, forbidden, whispered with fear and disgust—scorched like a brand on his skin. Lan Xichen, the beacon of the Lan sect, had succumbed to a bond that defied every rule, every expectation, every doctrine. “How can a man who loved so much still be worthy of leading?” A mistake? A weakness? Or maybe just the fruit of a love that had never known the limits of sin?

The knot of anger and shame that held Lan Qiren was not just a physical sensation, but a deep echo that resonated in his mind, a discordant music that refused to stop. Every breath felt like a burden, every thought a blow to his composure, and yet he couldn't find relief. Shame, like black vinegar, spread within him, sinking into every corner of his conscience, like a stain that would never be removed. It wasn't just the shame in front of others—the one that made him kneel before the critical eyes of the sect's elders. No, it was something more intimate, something that tore his soul apart: doubt. The doubt that seemed to creep beneath every decision, every step he took. Not his—he had never doubted his morals, his duty, right and wrong. But the doubt of others, the poison insinuated into the heart of the sect, in the disciples who lowered their gaze, in the elders who hesitated before pronouncing Lan Xichen's name.

The Lan clan was crumbling under the weight of lies, of lost tradition, of separation that they could no longer mask. Lan Qiren felt that, no matter how hard he tried to hold the pieces together, something was now broken beyond repair. Lan Xichen who, with his silence, increasingly resembled Qingheng-Jun, that brother that Lan Qiren had loved and hated with the same intensity. With the same frustration, now just another shadow he couldn't reach out to. Lan Qiren felt strangled by an invisible grip, a tension snaking through his bones, like an old rope slowly giving way under the weight of a burden he hadn't chosen.

It was Lan Xichen's shadow following him, the same replica a shadow of a man who had never truly been present. Lan Qiren, like an old tree bent by the wind, had seen his clan transform into a wounded beast, yet that beast had not torn anything in fury. No, it had fallen silent, like an old empty cage that closed in its scars. Lan Xichen didn't fight, he didn't scream, he didn't rebel. His silence was not protest, it was not withdrawal: it was an absolute void that devours everything, including himself. And that emptiness devoured him like a fire that is never seen but can be felt in every heartbeat, in every breath.

Lan Xichen, just like Qingheng-Jun, chose silence. But it wasn’t the same silence. It was not what Lan Qiren had seen and known. Qingheng-Jun had made a conscious choice, he had made it with a torn heart and a resolve that to Lan Qiren, as much as he had hated it, seemed almost... noble. Qingheng-Jun had chosen exile, yes, but he had never done so without leaving behind traces of who he had been, of who he would have liked to be. And Lan Qiren had hated that choice, he had rejected it, he had judged it, but somehow, the understanding for that gesture, for that escape, had roots that went deeper than he was willing to recognize. 

The very foundations of Gusu, once so solid, now trembled like the flesh of a man who has lived too long without a shadow of true purpose. Every corner of that sect, which once represented the immortality of the discipline, now breathed the heavy air of a world that had lost its order. The stones themselves seemed to crack under the weight of the knowledge that nothing would ever be the same again. And Lan Qiren, the most rigid of the Lans, the man who had made discipline his reason for existing, felt his principles cracking, with every little move, every decision, every unspoken word.

The truth insinuated itself into his heart like a slow, inexorable poison, everything he had tried to defend, every principle he had written in his eyes and in his hands, was now crumbling. And in this turmoil, Lan Qiren's body and mind felt heavy, as if the air had become thicker, as if an invisible burden had fallen upon him, so much so that even thinking became difficult for him. It wasn't just the weight of Lan Xichen's choices that crushed him, but that of his own choices, of his own disappointments. The incessant thought of Qingheng-Jun, the brother who had chosen to flee from his family, from his heritage, from his honor. Lan Qiren hated that silence...Oh, he fucking hate that silence.

Lan Xichen, withdrawn into his silence, seemed like the distorted replica of Qingheng-Jun, the father who had chosen to escape into his own abyss, like a man who had renounced all ties and all responsibilities. Yet there was a difference, a dissonance that burned inside him like a dry branch breaking at the first breath of wind: Lan Xichen had not married Jin Guangyao. He hadn't hidden the snake  in the darkness of a house as a secret to be kept away from the eyes of the world. No, he never made that decision. Lan Xichen had never allowed that tradition to develop into something tangible.

It wasn't a mistake of the heart, but a failure... And that was even worse. If Qingheng-Jun chose to hide his heart, he would apologize to the world, retreat to his corner of shame, but at least continue to wear the mask of duty. Lan Xichen, on the other hand, had never retreated behind a mask. He had chosen to escape within himself, to close the door behind him without even turning around. That's where the dissonance lay, where the real problem lay, Lan Xichen had not retreated into silence to hide his forbidden love, but to bear the sins of his own heart. His heart, which seemed to break with each breath, with each step he took in his isolation. And this, this fact, mattered more than anything else. There was not a hint of hope in his actions. There was no redemption in his loneliness. Lan Xichen's loneliness wasn't an act of redemption. There was nothing noble in that silence that seemed to remain suspended in nothingness, in that choice to distance oneself from life. It was, quite simply, an abandonment. And perhaps, Lan Qiren thought, this was what made him even angrier. Yet, perhaps, what really made Lan Xichen most similar to Qingheng-Jun was precisely this: a man who, at a certain point in his life, decided to break away from his own family, and who, in the end, never returned... at least not alive.

They were in the shame that tightened their throats, a knot of accusation and resentment that found no outlet, that did not dare take shape in words. Every time Lan Qiren's gaze fell on Lan Wangji, that knot tightened a little more, until it felt like he couldn't breathe. He had never said it out loud, yet he knew it was true: he blamed him. He blamed him, not only for breaking that oath, but for doing so with a naturalness that made the blood run cold. He blamed him for having reduced the blood oath, engraved in their flesh and in their stories, to a faded, irrelevant memory. Lan Wangji, that young man who had presumed to bend the honor of their house, to shake the earth beneath them with a sword he never should have raised. Without mercy, without respect. Lan Qiren blamed Lan Wangji for being the first to cast a shadow on that sacred promise which now seemed only a distant echo, yet so alive in his veins.

That thought, growing heavier and heavier like a rock in his heart, tightened his hands on his knees as he sat on the cold stone overlooking the springs. The silence of the night wrapped him like a blanket that was too tight, and the moon, in its distant corner, didn't even bother to touch him with its rays, which almost seemed to mock his solitude. It was now past the usual hour of rest. The stillness of the night brought no peace, but rather reflections that cut like blades. Lan Qiren, there under the tree, in that solitude that felt colder than the sky above him could ever be, couldn't escape that weight. The shame that gripped him, his own choices, the weight of what he hadn't been able to stop. The moon didn't illuminate his face, it didn't caress him, it didn't give him any comfort. It seemed like the whole sky had turned its back on his inner torment, as if even the stars were trying to forget what he had done, what he had seen happen.

Oh, Lan Wangji...Lan Wangji, the young man who had presented himself before heaven and earth, before the ancestors, with the same imperturbable serenity of a monk reciting a precept. So confident, so certain. As if every word he uttered was an act of faith, a consecration. And yet, in that moment, Lan Wangji no longer spoke the language of his house. He no longer took oaths that had been imposed on him, but oaths that no one would ever dare to break. He had tied his life to Wei Wuxian with the same sacredness with which he would bind a vow of chastity or devotion to a deity. As if his sect, his family, his legacy, had never existed. As if the ties that should have defined him were no longer of any importance. As if honor, that honor that he had tried so hard to embed in everyone's hearts, was now just a shadow, a ghost that he could no longer hold back.

Heresy. Lan Qiren couldn't even think of his nephew's face without a dull fury building in his chest, like a fire growing out of control, a blind fury that made him clench his fists until his nails dug into his flesh. Anger consumed him, but he couldn't even get rid of it. Lan Wangji had broken everything, and not just the rules he himself had taught, not just the precepts that had defined the path of the Lan clan for centuries. Lan Wangji had shattered their very sacredness by bringing a demon, the heart of their existence. There was no pity, there was no apology. His choice was final, like a blow that broke the sword itself.

And now, the weight of those sins, the weight of those actions that had reduced the clan to rubble, all fell on Lan Qiren's shoulders. Because, as everything around him crumbled, he never thought that he would be the one to pick up the pieces. Was this what was left of Gusu Lan? A leader who didn't speak, who took refuge in his silence, in his pain, because there was nothing left to say. An heir who didn't obey, who had broken every law. An elderly master who finds himself, for the first time in his life, not knowing how to reconstruct what had been broken. Lan Qiren found himself observing the night sky, his mind lost in the void of that silence that he could no longer fill. The flowers of the night, which once should have delighted his heart with their sweet and delicate scents, now did nothing but prick his soul with a smell of loneliness.

They were flowers that no longer flourished for him, that no longer brought him the serenity he had known. It was a feeling that took him back, to those distant years, when his grandchildren were little, and the world still seemed to belong to their innocence. When Qingheng-Jun, the father, the pillar, had closed that door, never coming out. He had left Lan Qiren with the burden of raising his grandchildren – the ungrateful ones who had strayed, who had never truly understood sacrifice. And not only them: he too, Lan Qiren, had taken on the burden of the sect's duties, of the negotiations with the other clans, of the weight of the traditions that could not be broken, even if the soul of that sect now seemed to have vanished.

Now, however, Lan Qiren was occupied with tasks far colder and more distant from caring for a family. He found himself having to manage the letters of commercial negotiations between the sects, those same sects that had once united in a single powerful voice, now fragmented in a dangerous dissonance. But even more disturbing were the other worries: he had to avoid every days that Wei Wuxian, the shadow that now wandered between them, did not use his dark arts, the ones that seemed to dirty everything they touched. And the thought that ChiFeng-Zun, that beast of a man, could break down the door of Lan Xichen's house, where his best friend had taken refuge in his isolation, never stopped giving him a headache.  Yet even as he became a jester of negotiations and a prisoner of his own duty, Lan Qiren felt there was something he was missing. No longer a house, no longer a family, but a set of ruins on which he walked every day, trying not to be overwhelmed by the pieces collapsing around him.

After a long breath that weighed on him like the entire world, Lan Qiren broke the silence, a sigh of frustration that made his lips tremble. He stood up, the movement slow and stiff, as if every fiber of his body was trapped in a weight he couldn't unhinge. He still had a letter to write, the first of a long series of words that he would have to put together, like pieces of a mosaic that could never find its order. The list he had made that afternoon, as a last attempt to keep his mind afloat as it slipped into the abyss, was like a chain that tied him to his role. The first name, among many, was Jiang Cheng. 

A name he would write, over and over, like an infinity that would never end.

Chapter Text

"Love of my life, don't leave me
You've taken my love, and now desert me
Love of my life, can't you see?"

Lan Xichen awoke to a world that seemed to have frozen, a world where the breath of the morning no longer dared to break the frost. The sunlight, so weak and timid, entered the room like an intruder who did not want to disturb the intimacy of the night. Its rays, pale and uncertain, reached across the wooden floor like fingers grasping at something solid, but everything seemed too distant, too fragile to touch. Every step he took on the floor creaked like a broken promise, every movement seemed like an echo of something that would never find its shape again. His body was tired, but his mind was lighter than he had ever felt before, as if it had been emptied by an emptiness he couldn't recognize. Every thought he tried to grasp slipped away like water through his fingers, like sand that was dispersed in the wind, which carried it away without being able to hold it. 

The curtains swayed slightly, moved by a breeze that seemed full of unspoken secrets. The shadows, long and deformed, stretched out like invisible hands ready to envelop him, as if every corner of the room wanted to keep him prisoner. There was nothing to see. The room, so empty, seemed to mirror his heart. The twilight, thick and still, only accentuated the weight of the silence that surrounded him. It was a silence that didn't feel like peace, but like waiting. A silence that burned like ash in my lungs, that made every breath an act of survival.

But in that moment, reality seemed to bend, like a fragile mirror that could no longer reflect anything truthful. Everything around him, which once seemed immutable, now buckled under the weight of an invisible pressure. The morning light, while trying to dissolve the shadows, was unable to penetrate completely. It was as if that light was afraid to enter, as if the world, all around him, was afraid of revealing what lay beyond that threshold. Lan Xichen stopped, eyes closed, as if the simple act of breathing was forcing him to relive every step he had taken. Every breath felt heavier, as if it were filled with a truth he could no longer ignore. That silence that surrounded him seemed to call him, like a sea that was swallowing him mercilessly. Every thought, every desire, seemed to dissolve in the air, like dust that failed to form into anything concrete.

His hands came to rest on the edges of the window, but the landscape beyond no longer spoke to him. The distant hills, once familiar and serene, now seemed detached, as if they were part of another world, distant and unattainable. The quiet that surrounded him was not the peace he once knew, but an emptiness that seemed to devour his soul. A void that, within it, held every mistake, every regret, every choice that had led to nothing. There was no answer in the vastness of the land that stretched before him. The quiet felt suffocating, not liberating. A silence that gave him no room to think, but only to sink deeper and deeper into that same expanse of nothingness, as if every step he took took him further from what he once loved, further from what he once was.

Lan Xichen wasn't looking for answers at the moment. There was nothing to fix. There was nothing to do but stay still, immobile, waiting for a change that would never come. The morning light failed to warm him, as if he were no longer worthy of being touched by the sun. His shadow mixed with that of the curtains, and in that moment he felt he was the same thing: a shadow, something that no longer belonged to reality. 

Lan Xichen took a deep breath, as if he were trying to eradicate the invisible weight that was crushing his chest, to shake off the invisible chains that tied him to the oblivion of a hopeless existence. The air, which entered his lungs like water touching the bank of an exhausted river, seemed to remain trapped between his ribs, as if every beat of his heart wanted to reveal something to him that he did not want to see. Eyes closed, the world outside faded, the dawn became an uncertain and gray brushstroke that clashed against the darkness that didn't want to give up. It was as if the universe had taken a pause, and in that suspended void he found himself floating, in a limbo between existence and invisibility. 

Another day. The new day arrived like a betrayed promise, silent and inexorable. The light, a gray river that crawled between the cracks, invaded the room without a shadow of hope, and was reflected on the stagnant water of his spirit. Each ray that entered had no strength, no heat, like a flow of lead that slowly melted, swallowing everything in its path. The air, dense as fog, did not touch the skin but remained suspended in the restlessness of a held breath. Lan Xichen remained there, in front of the window, feeling the weight of that new day that did nothing other than impose itself with its indifference. The scars of the past, the ones that had imprinted on his flesh like a brand, had never truly healed. Instead of disappearing, they had become a single entity with its skin, with its existence. They had merged with him, as if they had been destined to remain part of him, to keep him company even on the grayest days, in moments of absolute emptiness. The pain, now so familiar that it had become part of his very essence, gripped his chest in a grip that had no intention of loosening. There was no longer any difference between his flesh and the suffering that seemed to be rooted in every fiber of him.

The light, which tried to filter through the veils of the world, did not have the ability to wash away that incredible heaviness. Like a brush trying to erase the traces on a canvas now worn by time, Lan Xichen knew that nothing could repair what had been broken. Every effort, every gesture, seemed futile. The scars were not just marks on his skin, but pieces of his story, a story burned deep within him. Time neither erased or healed; it passed only like a wind that was unable to sweep away the dust that had accumulated.

His life had transformed into a series of days, all the same, all identical, yet each of them scratched more deeply the surface of a soul that now felt shattered. The days were nothing more than a succession of fragments of time that only highlighted his incompleteness, his loneliness. Every act, every breath, seemed to be there to fuel the fracture that now marked everything. Beauty, even if so sought, seemed only a distant illusion.Another cycle. It felt like life was slipping through his fingers like sand, yet that sand burned his skin, leaving invisible but indelible scars. He couldn't escape his own fate, as if he were trapped in a picture that he himself had painted but couldn't complete. The canvas of his life remained incomplete, and the colors he had used could only muddy the white he was trying to fill.

Every time he tried to breathe, he felt the weight of his soul dragging him towards the bottom, yet he didn't have the strength to fight. The days had no meaning, they were just the constant repetition of a cycle that would never end. What should have been a path had turned into a spiral, and Lan Xichen could no longer remember when he stopped fighting against the current. The weight of his scars crushed him more and more every day, like a huge stone that had sculpted his heart, but had also made him unable to look forward. There was no room left for the future.

Every movement was a memory of the past that was reflected in the fatigue of his muscles, as if every step was marked by the shadow of something he could no longer escape. His feet, like old stones in the water of a stream, creaked and the noise seemed to echo too loudly, as if the echo of his footsteps were demanding an account of the time he had wasted, of the promises not kept. Every noise hurt, it was too alive to be real, yet too distant to be ignored. The light that entered through the window did not warm, it was a sterile caress, an illusion of life that was unable to penetrate the cold and painful flesh. Like the wind that brushes the skin without ever truly caressing it, the heat of the light never reached him. His body was a hollow shell that moved out of habit.

His gaze fell on the small bonsai plant, his only company in his hours of solitude. That bonsai, growing slowly in the silence, had seen more than him, had witnessed his desperation and his resignation. Lan Xichen approached him, the trunk standing before him like a small monument to the life that continued to be abused by his presence. His hands, cold and delicate, slid over the trunk like a silent caress, trying to repair what time and pain had destroyed. Every leaf he touched felt like a memory he was trying to remove, every branch he bent, a part of himself he was trying to put back in order. The plant, silent and immobile, seemed to represent what he himself was unable to do: grow, flourish, be. 

Every gesture was a plea, a desperate act of reconstruction, but the bonsai was merely a metaphor for what he could not repair within himself. Every leaf he tended, every branch he fixed, seemed to want to repair his very soul, but it was as if his hands were sliding on a smooth surface, unable to truly grasp life. The pain, like a wound that has never been healed, continued to pulsate silently, and yet, the bonsai resisted, in its own way, the seasons that tormented it. Lan Xichen paused for a moment, his fingers still in the branches, but his heart was heavy. That little tree, which had accompanied him in his darkest solitudes, could no longer give him the answer he was looking for. After taking care of his bonsai, Lan Xichen moved with the fluidity of a studied movement, like a dance that no one would ever dare to interrupt. Every gesture was perfect, but in his heart, no perfection could break the deafening loneliness that he felt growing, inexorable, like a wave that threatened to swallow him. He settled at the low table, his body almost sliding into the cushion that welcomed him, but the weight of his emotions prevented him from feeling the comfort of that softness. 

Lan Xichen found himself in the heart of a stillness that had no name, a void too deep to be filled, but too fragile to seem solid. The solitude that surrounded him was like a dark cloak, which slipped over his shoulders with an unnatural lightness, but inside, in his hidden heart, the whirlwind of thoughts grew, the echo of a torment that he didn't know how to express. His mind, like a placid river, hid beneath the surface the dark and tumultuous waters of a pain that he could no longer disguise.

The quiet, alone in my gaze, a deception, like a veil of snow on a deep sea; Yet underneath, the strange heartbeat, moving, invincible, in a world
Who knows no respite. In every thought, chained, it breaks, like ice that breaks Without mercy, without escape, like a mystery, which does not fade, but pushes us eternally

Every breath Lan Xichen took was filled with an unbearable awareness, his heartbeat sounding like a distant, ominous drum. He knew, in some remote corner of himself, that the day of Nie Mingjue's arrival was approaching, like the shadow of the mountain that grows bigger and bigger, but he couldn't stop it. Two days, two miserable days, which separated him from the impassive face of his friend, who would arrive, with his firm step and his fiery words, to sweep away the walls he had built around himself.

In two days, destiny will call again, The door will slam with ancient sound,
And the shadow of fate will become flesh, like a river that rocks every friendly dream.

The walls fall, the loneliness slips. But inside me, time does not give way,
Crying is like an enveloping sea. Yet, in the silence, the heart does not give in. 

Lan Xichen, lying on the pillow that welcomed his body like a silk caress, felt his fingers trembling, not from the cold, but from that dull frenzy that took root in his bones. It was like his skin had become too tight, too fragile to contain him. Every breath was heavy, as if the air were thick, filled with something he couldn't define. Every movement seemed to get bigger, as if time itself was watching him, waiting for him to give in, to bend. His hands, usually so steady and sure, were now weak, like branches bending under the weight of a silent storm. The solitude he had chosen, and which perhaps he had welcomed as a refuge, now oppressed him like a golden prison. There was a beauty in that solitude, a kind of enchantment that had seduced him, but was now turning into an invisible trap. The silence of his room, which once cradled him, seemed to have become a relentless judge, an echo that mercilessly repeated every choice he had made. It was an invisible boundary that separated him from the world, but also from himself. His existence seemed suspended, as if he were walking on a tightrope between the past and the present, but the future seemed to escape him, too far away for him to grasp.

The breath that breaks like dry leaves in the wind,
Every step a shadow that lengthens,
And loneliness, like the burning sky
Without clouds, without end.

He had chosen to be alone, but now he no longer knew if he had wanted it or if it had been destiny that imposed it. His mind, normally so clear and lucid, was now lost in labyrinths of thoughts that were knotted around each other. Every gesture, even the simplest, like adjusting his tunic or regulating his breathing, had turned into a heavy act, loaded with a responsibility he hadn't sought. Every movement seemed to weigh like a boulder that added to the burden he was carrying inside. And the more he tried to free himself from it, the more that weight seemed to grow, like a mountain rising silently behind him. 

Please, I beg you,
Don't let me drown in this fog of doubt.
Every heartbeat is a regret that I can't find words to tell,
every breath, an unanswered prayer.

The pain that gripped him was an abyss that stretched endlessly, a black hole that swallowed up every thought, every desire. It was as if his chest had been invaded by iron roots, penetrating into his flesh and heart, each beat of his heart a blow to his very spirit. Every breath he tried to take seemed to slip away from him, like a snowflake melting in the warmth of a breath. He couldn't hold his breath, couldn't hold the life inside him. Every time his hands touched the bonsai, he felt as if he were caressing the threads of destiny, the ones that had imprisoned him in a corner he couldn't escape. The little branch, which had once seemed so perfect and well-groomed to him, now seemed like a prolonged echo of his loneliness. It was as if each leaf of the bonsai had an unbearable weight, as if his hands were no longer able to feel the beauty in handling it, but only the frustration of not being able to restore to himself the grace that he once possessed. 

The bonsai, once a symbol of his patience and calm, now seemed a mirror of his soul, a distorted reflection of what he had been. Watching it was like watching the breakage of something perfect, the beginning of its decomposition. Every leaf that fell, every branch that broke, felt like a physical manifestation of his heart breaking with every breath, as if time itself was taking its toll. His hands trembled when they touched him, not because he lacked technique, but because there was a hidden fear, a fear that was somehow trying to bend his very essence. As if taking care of that plant was an attempt to keep alive something that was already dying inside him.

He was tired, but not like a resting person. He was tired to the core, like a mountain that had resisted the assault of the winds for too long, with its roots beginning to give way under the weight of time. Every thought was a chain that pulled his mind in a thousand opposite directions, as if his soul was dragged into a dead-end labyrinth, a path that led to no destination. Frustration grew inside him, like a sore that became infected every time he tried to heal it. His remorse wasn't just for what he had done, but for what he hadn't done, for the words he never spoke, for the hugs he never gave, for the bonds he never had the courage to tighten tighter. Every excuse he tried to give himself seemed to ring hollow, like an echo responding to itself. Every promise made and not kept hit him like a wave crashing onto a rock, eroding his certainty, his security. The oaths he had given, which he had sworn to uphold like a sacred seal, were now merely a burden, a mark that imprisoned him. Every time the memories resurfaced, every time the past came back to the surface, he felt as if he were dragged by a rushing current, unable to swim against it. He couldn't stop. He couldn't stop the thought that consumed him, like a flame that burned but left no ash, just smoke, just emptiness. Every memory he tried to push away came back with more force, like a monster living in his bones. And in this never-ending torment, Lan Xichen felt trapped, unable to free himself from his own pain. 

Every heartbeat is a regret that I can't find words to tell,
every breath, an unanswered prayer.
And time, that unstoppable river, slips through my hands,
carrying with it my hope, which will never return.

Lan Xichen felt desire like a vice gripping his heart. Every fiber of his body burned with the need to open that damn door, to go to Nie Mingjue and tell him that everything would be okay, that maybe he could face what he had been avoiding. The door, however, remained nailed shut. There, motionless. His soul, divided between the will to react and the incredible fear of doing so, was like a castaway at the mercy of impetuous waves, unable to find the shore. The sound of those knocks on the door, those knocks that resonated like echoes in his heart, must have been heard by everyone. But he, Lan Xichen, was unable to answer. In those moments, his mind closed, like a heavy fog that took over everything, making every thought, every decision falter.  

And yet, in the deepest silences, there was a corner of his mind that knew the truth. Nie Mingjue knew Lan Xichen would never open that door. He always knew it, as we know an immutable truth, a law that cannot be broken. Yet, instead of giving up, he continued to stay there, behind the door, doing what no one would ever dare: he tried to make him laugh. There were no words to explain the action. Just his presence, his warmth. A laugh that must have sounded like a caress, like a heartbeat trying to reawaken something that had died inside Lan Xichen, an attempt to break the ice that had imprisoned his heart. 

The silence, asks for its rest,
a hidden corner where the breath
calms down, and the tired heart is lost,
looking for peace, like a sea at rest. 

"Xichen," he would say, his voice slipping through the cracks in his wall. "Xichen, how about we laugh a little? How about we don't let go of all the weight? How about we go back, for a moment, to when life wasn't all about pain?"

Lan Xichen didn't respond. Not because he didn’t want to. Not because he didn't want to hear those words, but because in that moment, those words were the only thing separating him from madness. Nie Mingjue's laughter wasn't just sounds. They were like sharp knives that tore his skin, making that part of himself come to the surface that he no longer wanted to see, that he no longer wanted to face. But he still did it, always, without saying a word, without moving from his self-imposed prison. Nie Mingjue, however, didn't stop. He never stopped searching, trying. And that silent struggle, that dance between "want" and "have to" only pushed Lan Xichen further into his corner, as if it were a fight against himself, a battle he would never win.  

In the darkness that surrounded him, Xichen felt the weight of shame like a vice, an invisible thread that tightened his heart with every beat. It wasn't just the pain that consumed him, but that sense of failure that slowly devoured him. It was as if every breath was a laceration, as if the very air was burning his lungs, reminding him that he was no longer the brother he had promised to protect, nor the leader who should lead his sect. Every thought that ran through his mind was imbued with that silent shame, the one that got under his skin and pulled at his veins, making him feel every mistake, every defeat, every moment in which he had not lived up to himself, his family, his clan. His own body seemed to betray him: his breathing, so heavy, like a burden he couldn't shake off. His skin, so cold, as if it had been deprived of all heat, all strength.

Yet, in that void, there was a spark. A shadow that touched his heart, so faint that it seemed to vanish as soon as he noticed it. It was Nie Mingjue's voice, which in his abyss of silence, of desolation, resonated like a discordant note that couldn't stop trembling in his chest. It was a flame, so small, so weak, but it didn't go out. And Lan Xichen hated it, hated that flame that continued to warm him, to remind him of who he had been, who he could have been, if only he had had the courage to do more, to not let his weakness rule him. It was a shame that tore him apart, that made him feel every gap, every moment of failure like a dagger blow. But that spark... despite everything, remained. And this, more than anything else, was what tormented him. Because, deep in his heart, he knew that that spark, however fragile, was fueling a fire that should never have lit. A fire that was consuming him, mercilessly. 

Why do I love you?
Why do I love you and you still abandoned me?
My love, you are poison and a blade,
which sinks into the heart, without mercy.

Lan Xichen watched his hand tremble, a subtle vibration passing through his fingers like an icy wind that couldn't stop. It wasn't fear, no, it was something much deeper, something that had dug deep inside him to the core. The trembling didn't come from the darkness that surrounded his room, but from inside, from the depths of a heart that no longer knew what to do with everything it had kept quiet. Every word he hadn't said, every gesture he hadn't made, was now sinking roots into his body, demanding an account of every silence, every brake he had imposed on himself. There, in that tremor, there was a feeling of helplessness, as if it were his body rebelling against the weight of the silence he had chosen. His hand trembled not just from the thought, but because he could imagine too much. He could see the infinite possibilities that had unfolded every time he closed his eyes and surrendered to the loneliness, to the fear of facing the unspoken words, the truths hidden behind his closed eyes. Each image was a fragment of pain, each possibility a remorse that burned his skin. 

Every word you said was a lie,
every caress a cut hidden in the dark,
and now that I look at you, I no longer know who you are,
but I still look for you, like a leaf carried away by the wind.

Where silence began, he began. That silence that he had built like a wall between himself and everything he wanted to be, but that he had never had the courage to seek. Every time he closed his eyes, he realized that it was not only the outside world that was silent, but also his heart, which had learned not to shout, not to ask. Yet, behind that silence there was a storm that was consuming him. Because every time the world fell silent, he felt more lost, more distant from himself. And that trembling hand was only the first sign of a shipwreck he had never wanted to acknowledge. And all this because he had loved. A love that had never asked permission to enter his heart, a love that had slipped through the cracks of a life he thought he knew. He had loved a walking dead, a soul trapped between past and present, between memory and flesh. 

The love Lan Xichen had for him was a ghost, a presence he could never truly touch. It was never a love that had a clear beginning, or a future to build. He was born as a shadow, grown in the subtle folds of his soul, invisible to anyone but him. It was the desire to touch what couldn't be touched, to talk to someone who would never answer. Like the wind beating against the walls of a deserted house, the love he felt for that dead figure was an incessant beating of hearts and breaths, which did nothing but reaffirm the distance, the emptiness between them. Every time he closed his eyes, Lan Xichen couldn't help but relive his presence. He saw it in the shadows cast by the flickering light of a candle, in the folds of his clothes that still seemed to vanish in his hands, in the memories that tormented him, sharp as blades. His image danced in the cracks of his mind, always elusive, never fully defined. It was like a hazy painting, the edges uncertain and the lines never meeting. The pain didn't lie in not being able to touch him, but in the fact that that figure he loved, that figure that was his, had never been entirely his. It was just a part of him that was receding further and further away, like the sea retreating to the horizon, leaving only wet sand and traces that soon disappear. 

Why do I love you? If you have reduced me to dust,
if every promise has become a betrayal,
if your name is a cry that tears my soul apart.

His hands trembled not from pain, but from the incredible weight of shame. He had loved a walking dead man, but he had never had the courage to tell himself. Every thought about him, every memory, every fragment of his image only dug a deeper abyss inside him. Yet, he continued to look for it in every dark corner of his existence, as if it could really bring him back to life. Hope, though vain, had taken root in his heart like a poisonous plant. He wanted it with all his being, yet he knew it was impossible. Time had eaten away every possibility. The shadows he was trying to call would never answer. Lan Xichen was living with regret. Every breath he took pushed him further from the reality he was trying to construct. He was trapped in a love that couldn't be, yet he couldn't let it go. A love that asked nothing more than to exist in a silent corner, far from everyone, but always present, like an echo that resonates in an empty room. And he couldn't help but listen to it. 

Lan Xichen raised a hand to his cheek, the cold of the tear sliding down his skin reminding him how far he was from waking up. His heart, frozen by solitude, had never known the sweetness of a serene dawn. Yet, that tear was a symbol, like a drop of rain falling on a land that had never known water. A solitary trace left by a soul that didn't have the courage to ask for answers, not even from itself. He looked at the paper beneath him, that simple piece of paper that didn't speak. It had become his refuge, the place where his words broke without ever reaching anyone who could hear them. Writing, as delicately as a paintbrush touching a blank canvas, was all he had left. His only way to ask why he had never been able to see with clear eyes, to understand why the shadows had become so familiar, to understand why he had never been able to free himself from the weight that he felt pressing down on his chest. It was a purple hyacinth, but its beauty was a silent beauty, hidden in the folds of its soul. Lan Xichen, with her flawless face and apparent calm, was a flower that did not dare to bloom in the broad daylight, afraid of not bearing the light. And now, like a flower that had lived in the shadows for too long, he longed to ask for forgiveness. But to who? To Nie Mingjue, his lost friend? To Lan Qiren, who had watched him like an immobile rock, never understanding his torment? Or to himself, for having betrayed his soul, for never having had the courage to truly look at himself?

Forgive me.
Forgive me if my heart is filled with tears,
If every step I took was a mistake
If I let love be my pain

Lan Huan didn't have any answers, but he could write. His words slid like drops of tears falling and shattering on a smooth, infinite surface. In every poem he wrote, there was a part of him that was freed, but no poem could fill the void he had dug inside himself. Every word, every verse, was like a flame that tried to illuminate a dark corner of his heart, but it couldn't help but go out as soon as the wind of reality touched it. Lan Xichen remained suspended between the unspoken and the unwritten words, as if his own life were an incomplete poem, interrupted every time he tried to find his truth. The words, however sweet and delicate, could not calm the silent scream that echoed in his heart. Every letter, every poem he put on paper seemed like an attempt to bridge an abyss that had never had a bottom.

His hands trembled slightly, not from fear of what he would write, but from the knowledge of what he could never fully express. His words were shattered, the sentences like fragments of glass that, even though they tried to recompose themselves, always let slip out that dark liquid that had dug a groove in his soul. It was a visceral sensation, like an emptiness that took over every corner of his being, but which could never be filled by words that couldn't speak to what he really was. Every time he wrote, there was a little relief, a lightening of the burden, but that relief was fleeting. Each written verse seemed like a small spark trying to light a flame, but the flame quickly went out. There was nothing that could truly illuminate the darkness that silently consumed the deepest part of him. It was as if every word was destined to disappear as soon as it touched the paper, as if every verse, however written with passion and suffering, was destined to leave no trace.  

I broke my spirit into a thousand fragments,
I looked for peace where there was nothing,
and now remorse tears me apart, tears me apart,
while the darkness swallows me, without mercy.

His words slid like drops of tears falling and shattering on a smooth, infinite surface. Every time he wrote, there was a small relief, a lightening of the burden, but that relief was fleeting. Each written verse seemed like a small spark trying to light a flame, but the flame quickly went out. There was nothing that could truly illuminate the darkness that silently consumed the deepest part of him. It was as if every word was destined to disappear as soon as it touched the paper, as if every verse, however written with passion and suffering, was destined to leave no trace.  

Forgive me, for having loved when I should have left you,
for having believed when doubt should have guided me.
My heart is a prison of regrets,
yet I still look for you, in the void I created.

Every verse he wrote, at that moment, became a sort of refuge, but also a prison. Each poem tried to reconstruct a corner of himself that he felt was lost, but every time he tried to bring order to that internal chaos, the chaos took over again. It was a cycle that repeated itself incessantly, without end, where the hope of an answer was consumed in the fire of his solitude. Yet, every word, every sentence, seemed to push Lan Xichen to a deeper awareness of his condition: the void he felt inside himself would never be filled, but he continued to write, as if writing was the only thing he had left, the only possibility of not succumbing to its shadow.

The words I never told you hurt me,
the silences that I should have broken destroy me,
yet, in this sea of pain, I implore you,
forgive me, even though I know it's too late to ask for mercy.

And so Lan Huan stood there, his face buried in his hands, trembling with pain he dared not acknowledge. A purple hyacinth, lost in his own roots, unable to ask anyone for forgiveness, because no forgiveness could truly heal the wound he had inflicted on himself. He had created all this with his own hands, and now he found himself contemplating ruin.

I love you and I hate me.
I love you and hate me, in the shadows of my thoughts,
every heartbeat is a wound that won't stop burning.
My heart seeks you, but my spirit denies you,
yet you are my torment and my salvation.

Chapter Text

"Just a little lonely where I am
Take me back in time, I wanna see if you can smile
If I become a better man"

It was now deep night, and the sky stretched over the world like a starless canvas, devoid of those points of light that give meaning to the darkness. The lake, still and vast, seemed to hold its breath under that black blanket, while the wind touched its surface with light hands, rippling it slightly, like a whisper that fears being heard. Lotus flowers floated among the water lilies, scattered like unheard prayers, silent offerings to a night that had no eyes to see them. Their scent mixed with the air, sweet and persistent, yet somehow suffocating, like the memory of something that can no longer be touched, but which never ceases to exist... sweet but stunning, like a burning caress, it mixed in the air, like a memory that cannot go out. It was the scent of a goodbye never given, of a heart that still beat in silence, waiting for a gesture that would never come. Every petal, an unspoken word, every flower, a vanished dream floating without hope of being picked up.

Their beauty clashed with the indifference of the sky, like tears that fall to the earth without leaving a trace, abandoned to a world that has no time to stop. This was the cruelest truth; it didn't matter how beautiful a flower was, how pure a feeling was, but the universe didn't bend to preserve them, didn't hold its breath to listen to them die.

In that stillness, the lake seemed to breathe slowly, every ripple on the water a reflection of a lost soul. It was an imperfect mirror, a reflection that trembled under the weight of things left unsaid, of guilt that no one knew where to place anymore. They no longer belonged to those who had committed them, nor to those who had suffered them – they were suspended in the void of the universe, without a master anymore, like ghosts chained to a place that no longer existed. They were shadows that no longer had a body, memories that time had not forgiven, but that no hand could drive away. Every glance, every thought that rested on them was like a caress of the wind on a field of ash: light, evanescent, but painful, as if every touch awakened a truth that could not be forgotten. They were invisible scars, tattooed in the heart of existence itself, marks that could not be erased, yet they no longer had meaning, because nothing would ever be the same as before. The wounds no longer belonged only to those who had received them, they had become part of the world, like dew that disperses in the air, absorbed by the earth which no longer knows how to heal it. There was no revenge, no justice—just the eternal silence of a universe that had decided to no longer care about anything.

Those ghosts, suspended in thin air, were the relics of an era that could never have been, fragments of a truth that no man could ever possess, because it was too big to be contained, too dark to be illuminated. Their pain, light yet unbearable, hung in the air like a thin fog, dense with meaning, but indifferent to understanding. The scent of flowers, pungent and sweet, invaded the air like a secret that did not want to be revealed. It was the memory of a broken promise, the fragrance of beauty destined to rot, of grace that fades without ever having received a caress. It intertwined with every corner of the darkness, like an invisible thread that binds the present to the past, without ever untying. Because there was no release in that silence. Only the slow decay of what had once had a name. 

It was the suffering of those who loved too much, of those who hoped too much, only to then realize that the world has no intention of responding. It was the pain that curls around the bones, like roots that don't want to die, digging into flesh and memory, desperately seeking a place to take root. It was the echo of words never spoken, the broken whisper of an illusion that dissolves in the air before even transforming into sound. It was the atrocious awareness of having given one's heart to something unattainable, of having engraved it with promises that time has mocked, broken, dispersed like dust in the wind. Yet, despite everything, those promises still lived, no longer like dreams, but like open wounds, like deep cuts that never stopped throbbing. Because when you love to the edge of the abyss, when you hold out your hand to someone who hides it, the pain never really disappears. It remains there, carved in sleepless nights, in cold dawns, in the void that no voice can fill. 

They were shadows without form, without name, relics of a time that would never return, trapped in a forgotten corner of the soul. They no longer belonged to anyone, not to the past nor to the future—they were just echoes of sounds too distant to be heard, remnants of something that had dissolved in the fog of regret. Their existence no longer had a face or reason. They existed only to be carried, like a huge burden that no one asked for, but that no one could let go of.

Every breath they took in the air was like the breath of a dead mouth, no life left within them, just an empty trail tracing the path of infinite suffering. They were like tides that had no shore to return to, waves of pain that crashed on a coast of eternal silence. Nothing in the world around them was able to bend them, break them. No movement, no word could restore to them what they had lost. Time had buried them under its dust, yet no man could ever truly be free from them, as if those scars, which could not be seen, still burned, stronger and more serious, deep inside.The sky itself, which stretched above the lotuses, had become their guardian, but not out of pity. It was just a huge blank canvas reflected in his dull eyes. Nothing up there, no god or star, just a cold and distant space, an immensity that swallowed up every desire, every hope, as darkness swallows light. He together with the flowers of them, trapped in the middle, a breath suspended in an agony that did not know how to vanish.

Yet, even in their eternal solitude, they had learned to scream without a voice. In every whisper of wind, in every ripple of water, there was hidden the cry of those who have never been heard, the request of those who have lost everything and have nothing left to ask for. Their silence was the testimony of a pain that would never be understood or forgotten. And all that remained, now, were the ruins of a soul that, despite knowing it could not be healed, continued to search for a fragment of peace, in the heart of a universe that had never truly welcomed them. And now, the world was silent. There was no answer, no redemption. Only the dull beating of a heart that no longer knew who to continue beating for.

In the heart of that strange calm, in the belly of the silent night, he sat like a wreck forgotten by the gods themselves... even if it had been years since the gods had forgotten him. His shoulders, bent like a branch broken by the weight of too many seasons, no longer knew whether they could support the burden of years or that of regrets. Every vertebra, every joint, spoke the language of tiredness, the language of someone who has supported too much, for too long.

It was like a lotus, one of those flowers that life had forgotten to take care of, which was slowly dying in a cradle that was now too empty. His roots, once strong and firm, were now frayed, abandoned. The wind no longer caressed them, the river no longer kissed them, and the lake, now quiet, no longer had anything to offer to those who had lost themselves within its vastness. The roots, just like his soul, were dissolving in the stagnant water of memory, left adrift, without purpose, without direction.

The gods had forgotten him. Perhaps it had happened slowly, one day at a time, like a breath of wind that takes away the petals of a flower until it is left naked, with nothing left to offer to the sun. Or maybe they had dropped him all at once, hurled down from the heights like a stone into the ocean, without the luxury of an explanation, without the right of a final prayer. Had it been such a great sin? Love? Believe? Longing for heaven? Whatever the truth, the sky above him was silent. Once, he looked up and found answers, now there was nothing. Just a wide empty canvas, without stars, without signs, without fate. Was he the one who stopped looking for them? Or were they the ones who got tired of listening to his screams?

And inside himself, among the waves of that viscous sadness, something was boiling. A dull echo, a cold bite, a blade that scratched the walls of the chest. Anger. Not shouted, not vented, not set on fire. Just a poison that stagnated inside him, like a wound that was never healed, like an oath broken by hands that weren't his.

Was this the cost of love? Was this the justice he was left? 

Yet, despite the weight of the ruins of his body, his hands were still, anchored like rocks in the midst of the rushing current of a crazy river, searching for the earth beneath him, as if contact with that surface could give him back something he had lost, something he could never find again. His palms, placed with the intensity of someone who seeks answers even in a simple touch, spoke a language that only he could understand. The cold, rough wood beneath his hands wasn't just physical support; it was his last connection with reality. The rest, the infinite lake, the moon which reflected only fragmented images of itself, all that silence seemed to reduce man to a solitary island, a being outside of time, of any possibility of salvation.

Under his right hand, the crumpled paper was a secret that had lain in agony for too long, an attempt to say what cannot be said, to write what cannot be written without hurting oneself. It was a piece of himself torn away, like a heart broken and thrown into the abyss, a heart that had never been able to free itself from its weight. The words on that paper weren't just letters; they were fragments of a broken life, an echo of a never kept promise.

The shoulders, broad as the columns of a now ruined temple, refused to yield to time, despite the icy wind that blew incessantly. They were the testimony of an honor that did not want to die, but which could not survive its own fallen glory. Every crack in its structure, every sign of wear, was a scar that spoke of distant wars, lost battles, broken hearts and broken promises. The water, which mercilessly caressed the pier, seemed to mock him, like a cruel mother who cradled him only to remind him that he could never go back. Each ripple was a broken reflection of himself, distorted and confused, a fragmented image of a man trying to rebuild his wholeness, but unable to put the pieces together. His figure, tall and imposing, stood above the water, but there was no majesty in that position. It was a height that only spoke of emptiness, a peak that no longer challenged anyone, a sign of power that no longer had strength, of pride that could no longer arise from the heart.  

He was a king without a kingdom, a golden statue left to oxidize over time, a god forged in the purest metal and then abandoned to the rust of regret. The weight of the night pressed on him, enveloping him with the cold of a cruel caress, an ungrateful mother who cradled him only to remind him that he would never have rest again. His eyebrows, sharp as a sword's blade, were arched in an imperceptible tension, a line between pride and something darker, something that didn't want to be shown. The forehead was smooth, but not from lack of thoughts—rather, from the habit of holding them back, of smothering them before they could ripple the surface.

Pronounced cheekbones cast subtle shadows on the cheeks, sculpting a face that knew no respite. The mouth was a tense line, the lips pressed together with the determination of someone who has learned not to let anything escape – no superfluous words, or weaknesses. A temple built with the effort of those who never had the right to collapse. And yet, his eyes betrayed everything. His face was a geography of silent struggles, like a landscape shaped by wind and storm. The eyebrows, tense, almost sculpted into a permanent wrinkle, framed a look that did not seek, but that challenged everything that encountered it. His eyes, deep and intense, betrayed a sadness that had not yet been accepted, a wound that tried not to become a scar. There was a regret hidden behind that flame, like an old fire that never went out completely. His eyelids, which sometimes seemed too heavy for the rest of his face, drooped to hide the torment burning behind his eyes. And yet, he did not turn around. His face remained motionless, but not resigned.

Under that mask of severity, there was a man who tried not to give in to weakness, yet his face betrayed the internal struggle. His breathing, never completely calm, was suspended in a fragile balance, as if the world itself were just an uncertain step. When he stared at the lake, he was no longer a man seeking answers, but one challenging infinity itself. Every crease on his face, every gossamer line of tension, felt like a statement. His fury was never shouted, but contained in a gaze that did not yield even in the face of infinity.

His eyes were a silent storm, a dark purple mixed with the color of the earth wet by the rainy season—not the rain that brings life, that settles softly on the leaves and nourishes the harvest, but the one that drowns, that leaves the soil soaked and broken, that digs furrows in the ground and fills them with mud. But his land had never been blessed with fruitful rains. Its sky had never opened its arms to the sun with the hope of being dried. No, its rains had been torrential, cruel, falling only to drown. They had left behind only cracks and rotten roots, trunks knocked down by the wind, the skeleton of a field that no one would cultivate anymore.

Yet, the skin bore the marks of the sun—not the sun that warms, that comforts, but the one that burns, the one that dries out the skin as it does the dying earth, which leaves only scars to bear witness to the passage of something that had once given life. What about the heart? The heart was left dry. Never really touched. He had been emptied before he could even feel full, as if the sun had decided to abandon him long before that night, that damned night in which something had been torn away from just above his navel, leaving him empty, leaving him orphaned of a piece of himself.

Since then he had carried that emptiness like one carries a badly healed wound, a crack in his chest that widened every time someone touched it. Maybe, for a moment, he had believed that the void could be filled, that there was a hand capable of suturing it, a voice capable of turning off the constant hiss of absence. But it had been a deception. An illusion constructed with poisoned words, with smiles that hid daggers. And him? He hadn't had a choice. He hadn't had any say in the matter. Now, he stared at the lake as if he could challenge it, as if his own reflection were an enemy to be defeated. The water rippled as the wind blew, distorting his face—and for a moment, Jiang Cheng wondered if it had always been this way. If his image had always been something broken, incomplete, wrong. 

Jiang Cheng stared at the lake, but could not see the water. He couldn't even see the waves moving lightly under the night wind. His gaze was absent, as if he was trying to challenge that shattered reflection of himself that the water returned. Every little ripple seemed to tear pieces of memory from his heart, like claws of an invisible animal scratching his skin from within. . No, his gaze slipped on the letter, the one that belonged to the past. He had looked for it as soon as his disciples had delivered the message from Gusu, which had arrived that afternoon. Lan Qiren's words were written with the impeccable rigidity of someone who lets nothing slip, but Jiang Cheng knew how to read between the lines. He knew that in those carefully chiseled characters there was the weight of regret, of pain, of things left unsaid and of those said too late.  Lan Qiren had sacrificed himself once again, his duty nailed to his bones like a burning brand, like the silent cry of a tree that bleeds resin under the weight of the seasons. And that shadow of duty was now reflected on Jiang Cheng's shoulders, threading between his shoulder blades like blades of cold wind, creeping into the cracks of a man consumed by anger, a man who had not aged gracefully over the years, but had fermented in his own bitterness, like a wine forgotten in a cracked barrel, left to rot into vinegar. Acidic, harsh, sharp on the tongue and in the chest.

It tasted like disappointment. It was the taste of lotus seeds broken between your teeth, crushed only for the cruel pleasure of tasting disgust, of remembering that certain things, certain people, certain dreams can never truly be swallowed without feeling the bitter aftertaste.

Lan Qiren's words, always so measured, always so rigid, had come like the sound of a drum in the void. They resonated inside him without finding a place to settle, without managing to take root. Whatever that old man had written, whatever feeling he had felt in tracing those characters, he could not wash away time, nor could he suture the wounds that the past had engraved in bodies and souls. Jiang Cheng had met this man in another life. Not the Lan Qiren of now, bent by his own ideals like a temple whose columns support too great a weight, but the man of then, the severe master who had observed him under furrowed eyebrows as he strove to be the best student possible. And he had tried, really. He had put his all into living up to expectations, earning the respect he believed he deserved. But now, as he gripped that letter until his knuckles turned white, he wondered if it had ever been enough. If his efforts, his blood, his sweat had ever been of any use. Or if it had been just another name engraved in the register of history, destined to fade like ink on damp parchment.

Anger gripped him like a hand around his throat, squeezing until he couldn't breathe. And along with anger, judgment. A judgment he couldn't stifle, because he knew where it came from. He knew he wasn't just a man judging another man. It was the son who judged the father he had never had, the commander who judged the general who had dropped his sword, the disciple who judged the master who had lost his way.  Lan Qiren,  the man who sacrificed himself, the man who never wavered in his duty. For what? For who? A man who, like a statue carved in marble, had remained immobile, unwavering in his resistance. Yet that resistance wasn't that of a hero anymore. It was the resistance of someone who has nothing left to lose, of someone who has sacrificed so much that the very heart seems to have crumbled. And Jiang Cheng, despite hating him at that moment for never giving in, couldn't help but wonder if he, too, had condemned himself to become the same thing. A man who carries everything on his shoulders, who does not dare to show any weakness, but who is emptied inside, like a container that has lost all value, cracked from the inside, incapable of holding anything anymore except the emptiness itself. He carried the weight of his world like a statue carved from the hardest stone, worn by wind and rain, but never broken. Yet, behind that solidity sculpted in duty, silence and resistance, there was nothingness: an amphora with no more water, an armor worn for so long that you forgot where the metal ended and the skin began.

A man who was similar in a way much deeper and completely different from him. Similar to him.       

Jiang Cheng knew the taste of lotus seeds too unripe to eat, a bitterness that crept onto the tongue and remained there, insistent, stubborn, impossible to forget. He knew him because of that damned face, that thin weight like a needle that slipped on his shoulders dressed in white and blue, a color that had not looked at him for years. A color that, in another life, he had seen on a face with smiles that were too wide, with words that were always too lively. A face that belonged to the past, to the dust of days that would never come back. And Jiang Cheng would never, even under torture, give that face a name. Because the names were a door, they were reminders, and he couldn't afford to open anything towards something that had already collapsed. 

Another man carrying the weight of the world as if it were a puppet chained to his soul, a boulder crushing his chest, his shoulders bent under his weight like broken beams of a bridge that no one would dare cross. His body is a tower that has stood too long, but inside is empty, a shell, fragile as glass. Every step is a broken promise, every breath a blow dealt by life that has never had the chance to breathe freely. His hands, those same hands that once could have built and defended, are now rusty nails, touching everything with no more touches of sweetness, but only the cold of a truth that can no longer be avoided. Inside, the restlessness is like a stormy sea, sliding through his chest like an arrow stuck in living flesh. But you can't see it, you can't hear it. His strength is an invisible wall built of bricks of pain, stacked on top of each other, so high that no words, no thoughts can penetrate them. Emotions are prisoners, confined to the deepest recesses where no one can reach. There are no tears, there are no screams. Only the sound of his breathing, more labored each time, like a sail torn in the heart of a storm that never stops raging.

Yet, at the bottom of those eyes, there is the hardness of someone who has seen his life break too many times, sweetness turn to dust, hope shattered. Jiang Cheng saw that weight, that blue and white that tormented him like an invisible yoke, that crushed him with its insistence. That robe, that expanse of colors that was once the promise of a bright future, was now just a memory that slipped under his skin like hot sand that burns mercilessly. The face he had seen, the smile that seemed too wide to be sincere, those features that remembered the warmth of a life that would never return, were now just shadows in a dark corner of his mind. Jiang Cheng would never give that face a name, he would never want to talk about him. It wasn't just the name that was missing, it was the entire universe that had shattered like stained glass under the weight of a meteorite. And as his heart pounded, the thought slithered inside him like a poisonous snake, anger that he would never let go. 

Jiang Cheng didn't blame the First Jade for his mistakes, but the anger still tightened his throat, like an iron thong that doesn't break, that doesn't give way, that keeps him standing even when he wants to let himself fall. A twinge of judgment burned in the pit of his stomach—and he knew why. It was bitter like gall, acidic like spoiled wine, the same one that burned under the tongue when resentment became too heavy to swallow.

That past remained locked in letters and secrets. Sealed like an unmarked tomb, like bones buried beneath layers of hard earth, too heavy to move yet unable to lie dormant. Secrets that had made him sob in the corner of his room, his knees drawn to his chest, his nails digging into his skin like claws in the flesh of a dying animal. Secrets that had made him scream no, no, no, again and again, his voice broken, secrets that had filled his mouth with ashes, suffocated him under the weight of words that should never have been said, but that tormented him in the silence. No, no, no...A lament of those who cling to an illusion, the silent cry of those who don't dare to hope, of those who have seen their hearts stained with mud too many times.

But the gods had listened to him, not out of mercy, but out of cruel irony.

A dead man had come to life again. Not with the pureness of a miracle, but with the shadow of a curse. It had emerged from the mud of time, not as a gift, but as the dull sound of a war drum in the distance, like the first thunder before a storm that brings no rain, only ruin. The dead man had returned... and wasn't alone for long. He had already returned to the arms of the Second Jade of Gusu, and with him he had brought with him everything that oblivion should have devoured forever. Every secret, every unspoken word, every whisper that the earth had buried like an unmentionable sin. But the earth does not hold back what still screams vengeance. Jiang Cheng felt the smell of broken promises hit the walls of his mind like the rotten scent of decaying lotuses on the surface of the lake. It was not the sweet fragrance of memory, but the stench of something that should have remained buried, now crumbling under the weight of time. The ghosts were back on their feet. They crawled under his skin, seeped into his dreams, clung to his breath like bony fingers that would never let go again.

And then, well…The gods had taken away his heart. 

Give me the shovel, it's 'bout to get scarier.

The gods had taken his heart, and they had done so with the same coldness of a god who sees humanity as a game of pawns. With bare hands. They had torn it apart, with implacable fingers, like a predator tearing apart the flesh of prey, laughing as they heard the cry that couldn't escape. They had ripped him from the chest with fingers of steel, digging into the flesh without hesitation, without mercy. They had laughed as the blood dripped from their divine hands, as they watched him fall to his knees under the weight of something he no longer had inside him. The flesh, now empty, torn, was left trembling in the darkness of a world that made no difference.

And him? He was there, helpless, with his chest missing the beat that defined him, with his heart - disappeared - still warm in his memory. Pure pain, so penetrating that it feels like a hammer crushing your head, a boulder hitting you without feeling your body. There were no tears, no mercy. Just the weight of nothingness replacing everything he had meant, tearing apart every fragment of himself he tried to rebuild. A pain that was like a stone thrown against your face, without warning, without escape. Every nerve, every fibre, every corner of her body crumbled under the weight of that blow. Every breath, every missed heartbeat, was the emptiness that swallowed him more deeply, and in that darkness he was alone, crushed by his own impotence. He couldn't grab it anymore. He couldn't stop it anymore. It had been removed, and with it, his essence, his being. He was hollowed out, as if the universe itself had kicked him, laughing at his suffering. Heartless. Hopeless. Only rage.                                                                                  

Always there, nailed in that same place as always. A helpless spectator of his own defeat, condemned to watch others take, tear away pieces of his soul and trample them, while he remained to swallow the gall, to bite his tongue until he tasted the iron.And what did he have left? Only emptiness. An abyss that widened in his chest, a cave dug by hands stained with ash, a nothingness that never stopped biting, devouring him from the inside. But the pain? Pain was another thing. The pain was the poison that clung to his bones. The pain was the echo of a name he would never utter. The pain was the chained rage that squeezed his throat and screamed inside him, a furious beast that no one wanted to see. And the gods were still laughing. And they laughed. And everyone was laughing. Like vultures over a carcass, with claws stained with its own blood, with mouths full of poisoned words. They laughed because they had never had the courage to stand where he bled. The minor sects, the hypocrites, the ungrateful, those who once praised him, now looked at him with the sneer of those who are just waiting to see a statue collapse. They called him an asshole. Weak. A man who lost too much and gained too little.

As if strength were only measured in the heart beating in the chest.  As if he hadn't been the one to rebuild Lotus Pier, stone by stone, with his hands broken, his nails chipped by the earth. As if he hadn't been the one to take on the burden of his sect, to carry it forward with his shoulders broken under the judgment of those who would never have had the courage to do so. It didn't matter. It didn't matter that he survived the destruction, that he held on while everything collapsed, while his family's blood mixed with the ashes, while his tongue was consumed by not saying the name of those who were no longer there. It didn't matter that he had buried his sister, the only one he had left, the only piece of his heart that still belonged to him. It didn't matter that the resurrected dead had come back to haunt him, with his faded smile, with his body back to life, with his golden core beating in the wrong chest. No. All this was worth nothing. Because sin was etched into his flesh. The golden core in his chest was not his own. It was of the dead man. And this took away everything from him. It took away his right to exist, the right to suffer, the right to be recognized for what he had done. To them, Jiang Cheng was not a leader. He was not a man who had suffered more than anyone. He wasn't the heir who brought his sect out of the shadows. No.

A thief. An empty man. One who without the heart of another was nothing. They told him in the eyes, in the unspoken words, in the glances exchanged just outside his field of vision. It was engraved in the murmurs that slithered like serpents into the rooms where he did not set foot. He was there, in the reverence that was granted only out of duty, never out of respect.

And he knew it...Oh, he knew it.

He felt it every time his breath weighed in his chest, every time he placed his hand on that part of his body that wasn't his. He felt it on the nights when the silence became an accusation, when he lay down knowing that the heartbeat inside him belonged to a man who had returned from the dead. A man who had proven himself to be better, more worthy, greater, even in death. And him? He who had only lived to rebuild—with blood, with bones, with flesh—was nothing. It was just a container for something that didn't belong to him. A shell. A shell that walked, that talked, that drove, but that could never hold its own.

Because everything that was did not belong to him. Because their laughter weighed more than his scars, on the hugs he never received, on the tears that no one had dried, on his screams that no one had had the decade to really listen to. No one had seen the white nights as he saw his reflection in the mirror screaming at him angry and hurt as if he had never fought enough...And yet, damn it, he had fought. He had fought when Lotus Pier was nothing but ashes. He had struggled when his tongue filled with iron and saliva, suffocated by 'no's that served no purpose. He had struggled when the gods had ignored him, spat on him, trampled on him. And now they laughed.

And now they laughed. They laughed because he had needed a core that wasn't his to stay upright. They laughed because they thought that without that, he would collapse. 

What the fuck did they know? What the fuck did they know about getting up every time the world tried to crush you, hitting harder every single time. What the fuck did they know about what it felt like to always feel one step behind, a shadow distorted by a sun that shone only for others. What the fuck did they know about nights spent staring into the darkness with their hearts beating too loudly, too painfully, as if they wanted to explode so as to no longer bear the weight of a name that was a curse. What the fuck did they know about the insatiable thirst to prove something to a world that had already decided: he wasn't enough, he never would be. What the fuck did they know about the times when breathing stopped, the air became a weight that pressed on the lungs, strangling every word, every cry that no one had ever wanted to hear. What the fuck did they know about what it meant to clench your fists until you felt your nails digging into your palms, the blood dripping hot and sticky, just to remind yourself that he was still alive.

What the fuck did they know about Lotus Pier? Of the scorched earth underfoot, of the ashes that fell like black, dead snow, of the scent of lotus flowers reduced to dust? What the fuck did they know what it meant to watch your house turn into a cemetery and know that the only name engraved on those invisible tombs was your own. What the fuck did they know what it meant to have a clan on your shoulders and a brother in the grave, your heart torn out and thrown into the mud along with your dignity and pride. What the fuck did they know about the pain that rose up from the throat like bile, a poison that couldn't be spit out or swallowed, that festered inside and corrupted every thought, every breath.

What the fuck did they know about it? They who had not seen their reflection in the eyes of a dead man, who had not felt the bitter taste of failure, of regret, of shame. They who did not know the weight of a broken promise, of an oath that had broken under the weight of reality. They who had never seen their dreams reduced to shreds, devoured by the cruelty of fate. What the fuck did they know about having the courage to stand when the world wanted you on your knees? What it meant to fight every single day, to grit your teeth and ignore the pain, to ignore the scars, to ignore the voice that whispered that you were not enough, that you would never be. What the fuck did they know about the fear of becoming a monster, of losing everything, of being forgotten. What the fuck did they know about what it was like to be a man without a core, just a shell filled with a debt that could never be paid. What the fuck did they know about it? What the hell did they know about him? 

Let everyone laugh.Let those sons of bitches sell even the last crumb of their dignity, selling themselves off like damaged goods while honor rotted in their empty hearts and laughter lashed the air like whips. May they looked down on him, with that contempt disguised as pity, judging him without understanding, without knowing what it meant to have been flayed alive by fate, devoured by the flames of responsibility and stitched together only by resentment and determination. May the gods would come down and spit in his face, that they would still call him a thief, unworthy, useless. May the heavens tear apart and condemn him with their poisoned tongues, may they reproach him for his impotence, may they roar at him with failures and faults. That they would crush him under the weight of the dead and the living, of confessed and hidden sins. That they would show him the shadow of his weakness, the truth of his inferiority, the indelible stain of a golden core that did not belong to him. That they spewed judgments and sentences, that they reminded him every time that he had broken under the weight of expectations he had never asked to carry. 

Jiang Cheng was still standing. With his hands shaking with rage and his knuckles white with his desperate grip on his very existence, his heart beating like a war drum in his ears, drowning out the buzz of laughter and accusations. He was still there. The clan mark etched into his flesh, the blood and name he had sworn to protect, even if they had abandoned him, even if his shadow was all that remained. He had built his hell and reigned there with a fury that devoured everything. And no one could take him down. That they would try to break him, to humiliate him, to erase his name and brand him as the failed son of a ruined dynasty. May they come, gods and men, with their blades and their poisoned words, with looks of contempt and the poison of expectations. He would not fall. He would have resisted even with his chest open and his insides leaking to the ground, even when hatred and pain would have devoured his heart. Because this was all he had left, all he knew how to do. Hate. Survive. Resist. Then let them laugh. Let the ungrateful ones laugh too. Jiang Cheng would not bow his head, on the contrary he made it clear to him that he felt similar to Lan Qiren... to that ice statue... oh now everything was clear.

He understood why the anger boiling inside him made him feel like a distorted version of Lan Qiren, as if his soul had become a torn, frayed canvas, a twisted copy of what had once been a figure of strength and respect. Now he understood why the fury that consumed him wasn't just his, but belonged to anyone who had been forced to bend, to carry a burden that shouldn't have been his, an honor that shouldn't have been his responsibility.

Lan Qiren, who shouted at the disciples as if he wanted to take out the wrath of the universe on them, who did not stop even when his voice shattered, who never let weakness slip from his lips, this man who had sacrificed his very life for duty and for an honor that no one had asked him to bear. Jiang Cheng saw himself in that face, in the creases that had been created over time, in the features tense from fatigue, from loneliness, from the desperation of never being able to stop.

And that fury, that anger that devoured you from the inside, that burned your throat every time you opened your mouth... he felt it pulsating in his chest, in his breathing that was becoming more and more labored, as if the air itself refused to enter his lungs, as if he was afraid of discovering that inside him there was nothing left but emptiness, except that fury that he could no longer extinguish. Jiang Cheng screamed, but his words were a scream that bounced off the walls of his own prison, trapped in a spiral he never wanted to begin. His voice, like Lan Qiren's, did not seek to protect or heal. There was no care in his words, only the anger that slipped out like a poison that had poisoned him day after day, as if duty were a sentence and not a choice.

And now, sitting there, his body shaking with the urge to do something, he now understood that Lan Qiren's fury was nothing more than his own warped reflection. Two men, stripped of all hope, unable to give up their burden, unable to stop, even when the world told you to. The only difference was that Lan Qiren knew how to disguise it, how to wear his anger with dignity, while he, Jiang Cheng, had never learned how to do so. The words that Lan Qiren shouted at his disciples were words of reproach, of strength, of an authoritarianism that came from a life of sacrifice. And he, Jiang Cheng, was screaming for the same reason, but with an anger that wasn't trying to teach anyone anything. His voice was the wail of a man who felt betrayed by his heart, who had seen too much and gone too far, a man who knew that none of his screams would ever get where he wanted them to go. He too, like Lan Qiren, had shouted at the wind, but the wind had never listened to him. He was Lan Qiren in every breath. In every action he took. The scream that now came out of his mouth, like a blade stuck in his flesh, as he tried to make sense of all the chaos around him. He saw it clearly now: what he felt, what he felt inside, was nothing more than an echo of what Lan Qiren had experienced, a scar that never healed.

The scream that took shape in his lips was no longer just anger, but a cry of existence, of breathlessness. "Why?" - he shouted, also for Lan Qiren. "Why do we keep fighting?"

Now he understood. He understood why he felt so empty, why that weight was tightening his chest, suffocating him. The battle that Lan Qiren was fighting against his own nature was the same battle that Jiang Cheng was fighting, and there was no way out. Nobody was really free. No one was truly happy. Only duties, tasks, sacrifices. And the errors, all the errors that no one would ever forget...And yet, they still screamed. Both, without knowing it, had learned to scream at the sky, at the wind, at everything around them, in order to breathe. It was all the same. Jiang Cheng, at that very moment, was Lan Qiren. A man who screams, who vents his fury in the face of the world, but who ultimately understands that every scream, every shock that shook his soul, never freed him. He never released what had become a fire inside him. 

And maybe, deep down, as the letter from the past fell into the lake before him, just like a dream dissolving under the weight of reality, that letter was not just a piece of paper torn by time. It wasn't just a message of words whispered across the distance, it wasn't a memory to be buried. It was a door. Jiang Cheng realized that this letter was not just a piece of paper. It was not just a testimony of words that had been lost over time. It was a door. A door he only had to open.

The thought hit him like a flash, a ripe fruit falling from the branch with a clatter, leaving behind the echo of something that was finally revealing itself. The letter that now lay in the water in front of him, lost in the reflections of a lake that seemed to swallow it, was the bridge between two worlds: one he could no longer touch and one he had never wanted to cross. It was the past that was knocking on the door of his heart, but Jiang Cheng had never been a man who opened doors.

Jiang Cheng's eyes locked onto the smooth surface of the lake, and for a moment, everything seemed to stop. The beating of his heart, the rustle of the wind in the trees, the gentle swaying of the pier. The letter was floating slowly, dragged by the waters that seemed to whisper to him, as if the lake itself was trying to make him understand something. And yet, the anger inside him still burned. It was a flame that had consumed his soul too long to allow it to go out. Every word, every promise never kept, every dream broken, everything seemed to be condensed in that letter. But now, as the reflection of the moon flickered on the water, he knew that that letter could not just be the weight of a past that could no longer be changed.

No, that letter was the key to unlocking a part of himself that he had always refused to look at. He sighed, and his hand reached out involuntarily towards the letter, as if his body wanted to do what his mind had always refused to do. Every fiber of his being rebelled, but something inside him became louder, like a silent scream that defied all fear. The past would no longer just be a burden. With a gesture that seemed slow, but determined, Jiang Cheng tilted his head towards the letter, his eyes fixed on it. A door to unlock. 

A door that could finally set him free, or destroy him entirely.

Chapter Text

"It's getting dark, can't you see?
Is this another goodbye I didn't need?
No trails to walk, nor shining light
You're on your own, keep moving on all through the night"

Jiang Cheng would have lied, and he would have been good at it, if he had said that he was sleeping in his bed like he did every night, in the warmth of the blankets that had always given him comfort. But sleep, that fragile illusion of peace, had abandoned him long ago. Now, in the middle of the night, his body found itself stuck between the rigidity of the chair and the heat of a thought that gave him no respite. The table in front of him had become his battlefield, the paper his enemy. He had written, rewritten, ripped out every word as if he could distort the truth, bend it to his liking. But every written word seemed like a weight to him, a burden that weighed on his shoulders, a weight that grew every time he decided not to stop, to continue. His trembling hands had left indelible marks on the letters, marks that only he could understand, but that no soul would ever see. And as the curses fell softly from his mouth, his body trembled like a taut string ready to snap.

He had tried to write, once again, trying to maintain control, to fight against the tide of thoughts that overwhelmed him. But he couldn't stop his heart beating wildly. He felt as if he were trapped in a labyrinth of words, a dead-end, meaningless labyrinth. The letter, that letter from the past, hurt him more than any blade could. Every written word seemed to envelop him like barbed wire, every sentence like a direct hit, a memory that he couldn't escape. It wasn't just the letter that tortured him, but the fact that he had sought it, had wanted it. And now that he had found it, that search burned within him like an infected wound.

The thought of Lan Qiren had hit him like a rock thrown against breakable glass. The master who had given him lessons, not only in fighting techniques, but also in duties that had never been merciful. His figure loomed before Jiang Cheng's eyes, not as a beacon of hope, but as a mountain that seemed insurmountable. It was as if the weight of his words, his rules, had tightened him more and more, until he was forced to live in a corner where no light could reach.Lan Qiren's writing, the words cold and formal, seemed to prick like rose thorns, beautiful to look at but deadly in their embrace. Jiang Cheng knew well what it meant to appear indestructible, he knew what it meant to have one's strength crushed by the weight of duty, by the loneliness that never left room for weakness. But that letter, that message, was shaking him to the core.

The table in front of him had become his battlefield, the sheet of paper his enemy. He had written, rewritten, ripped out every word as if he could distort the truth, bend it to his liking. But every written word seemed like a weight to him, a burden that weighed on his shoulders, a weight that grew every time he decided not to stop, to continue. His trembling hands had left indelible marks on the letters, marks that only he could understand, but that no soul would ever see. And as the curses fell softly from his mouth, his body trembled like a taut string ready to snap. He was on his feet now, pacing the room nervously, the percussion of his footsteps on the floor echoing like his heartbeat, each time more impatient, more confused. The letter he had received - that damned letter that called him to a past he no longer wanted to see - slipped into his mind like a sliver of glass, sharp, cutting. He couldn't forget those words, the weight of those words that clung to his heart like chains, binding him to a fate he didn't want, to a man he didn't want to see anymore.

He was no longer wearing the clothes he had been wearing at the pier. He had removed them as one shakes off a memory that is too heavy, too wet to be forgotten. They still carried the humidity of the lake, the one that penetrates the fibers of the fabric like a pain that never dries. They smelled of the dead of night and of nocturnal flowers rotting on the stem, that sweetish, putrid scent that remains in the nostrils like a regret. Now they lay abandoned on a stool, dilapidated like a body emptied of its soul, still dripping with water and silence. The edges had surrendered to gravity, bent like knees under the weight of mourning. Every seam held a fragment of that night: the creaking of the wood under his steps, the chill of the water against his skin, the silent anger that made him clench his fists until his knuckles turned pale.

And those garments, so similar to a second skin, no longer seemed like simple layers of fabric. No, now they were silent judges, pitying spectators of his failure. They were looking at him. They were interrogating him. “What have you lost this time?” They seemed to be asking loudly even in the silence. "Why are we soaked in water and guilt? Why did you immerse us in the lake yourself to chase an illusion that you had already decided to destroy?" That tissue, cold and stuck to the skin like a condemnation, had become flesh, become a face. Two small creatures, made in his image, with his gaze shackled by weight, sat before him. They had their arms crossed, their eyes narrowed and their hearts beating with all the "why" they had ever said. And Jiang Cheng could no longer hold his gaze.

Watching them meant watching himself. Not the version he offered to the world – the commander, the patriarch, the iron man – but the real one, the one who lay beneath the layers of authority, like a heart buried under stone rubble. It meant recognizing every unshed tear, every scream strangled in the throat, every night spent searching for a reason in the void. It hurt too much. Looking at those ghosts meant seeing himself again, with all the suffering that he had tried to bury under his anger, under his hatred. He didn't want to respond to a past that had dragged him down like chains tied to his ankles in a raging river. He had been pulled from the earth with so much force that his very breath had been knocked out of him, as if the pain had cut a deep furrow into his raw flesh. The truth? The world looked at him and decided: this man is anger, and nothing else. Only anger. Only venom. Only hatred. He hated Wei Wuxian, hated what he had left him as a legacy.

The robes, which once seemed like simple pieces of cloth that wrapped around the body, had now become a silent prison. A burden that weighed not only on the flesh, but on the spirit. Every fold, every tight thread, seemed to sink into him like a remorse, like a guilt that he couldn't shake off. Every drop of water that wet that fabric, that stuck to his skin, seemed like an accusation, a reminder of a broken promise. As if his own soul, without mercy, was scolding him for what he had done and what he had not been capable of doing.

The robes looked, not with eyes, but with the weight of reality that can no longer be ignored. They seemed to ask, "Why didn't you let it go? Why did you tie yourself to this past as if it were a chain, a curse that never stops tightening?" And every time Jiang Cheng looked at them, those clothes became heavier, they became a mirror where he saw nothing but the image of himself, reduced to tiredness and resentment. His anger, the one that had accompanied him for years like a flame that burns without ever consuming itself, was more than a weapon. It had become his second skin, his refuge and his bane.

Wei Wuxian's face - that deep hatred that Jiang Cheng had carried in his heart like a never healed wound - became more vivid, more real in those moments of solitude. He told himself that it was too late, that there was no more room for forgiveness, that the door between them had been closed and sealed for too long... that damned door—Jiang Cheng had built locks made of thorns, bars forged in anger, bolts welded with years of silence. He had closed it, sealed it, chained it, nailed it down with all the strength he had left in his body. Because opening it would have meant letting Wei Wuxian through. And not the Wei Wuxian of the present, no — but the one with wide eyes, wrong smiles, words that stuck in the heart without asking for permission. The one that had left a shadow on him so large that it seemed like a second skin.

Opening that door meant listening to the parts of himself that he had silenced with shouts and duties, those parts that now stared at him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms, angry, disappointed. Those fragments he refused to acknowledge, because they spoke the language of regret. And he didn't want to hear why.

It was never really hate, no. It wasn't hatred he felt towards Wei Wuxian, not even at that moment. It was something much deeper, a truth that burned like a hot iron in his heart, but which he had never had the courage to face. That door he had closed was not only a way to keep the past away, but not to listen, not to hear those reasons that could have crushed him. "Why don't you want to see?" Those crossed eyes and those arms stretched towards him challenged him, as if asking him to stop hiding. As if to shout to him that if he only opened that door, he could find an answer. Yet Jiang Cheng didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to know that behind his every gesture, behind his every word, there was another truth that he never wanted to face. He didn't hate Wei Wuxian, he really didn't hate him. He hated himself. He hated his weakness, the fact that he hadn't been able to hold together what he'd lost. He hated the fact that that door, once opened, would allow him to see that it wasn't fate that separated them, but his own fears.

Accept it? Never. He never could. Every time he thought of giving in, of looking beyond the door that had closed behind him, fear made his throat tighten, like a lump that he couldn't swallow. Accepting that truth meant swallowing shards of glass, feeling the pain that tore at his soul and made him bleed, leaving his heart empty, an endless abyss. It was easier to live with the anger, with the resentment, than to embrace the reality of what could have been, if only he had had the courage to open that door. 

Better to remain blind, deaf, and carry on with that burden than to face it. Better to ignore the breathing rising in his chest, the beating that was getting louder and louder, like a drum asking to be heard, but he preferred to pretend not to hear. Better to hide behind the weight of anger, so familiar, so powerful, which gave him the strength not to fall, not to look back. Better to smile at the laughter of others, because at least in that noise he felt far from what was tormenting him, far from the memory that held him inside like a vice.

He took refuge in the choices he had made, the ones that kept him anchored to the floor of his room, while the world outside him spun endlessly. He wasn't looking for freedom. No, he was content with a corner of solitude, where he could tell himself that he had the right to blame Wei Wuxian, Wen Ning, Lan Xichen, the trees that seemed to whisper to him the pain of the past, the stones that spoke to him in silence, because there was no other way. There was no other way but to remain in his prison of thoughts, where everything that had happened was never really his fault. And the blame? Oh no, that didn't belong to him. They had made their choices, they had made their decisions, and now it was his turn to be the judge. There was nothing to forgiveness, nothing to change. They had moved on, while he remained anchored to a past that never stopped burning, but that he didn't know how to put out.Yet, in the silence of his room, something inside him began to tremble. Not enough to make him fall, but enough to make him feel like the road he was on was taking him nowhere. But it was too late, too late to turn around and face what he had buried beneath layers of anger and contempt. Better this way. Better to ignore the growing darkness, to continue walking in the endless circle that had imposed itself.

Why look each other in the face, really? No, he would never do that. 

Jiang Cheng looked at his bed, an island that called to him like the sweet and treacherous song of a siren. He knew that giving in would be a soft but deadly embrace, an invitation to slip into sleep, to let himself be carried away into the dream. But even the dream, for him, was a prison: like the dark waters of a deep river that seemed to welcome you, but you knew they would swallow you mercilessly, leaving you floating, exhausted, among the memories of a past that could no longer be forgotten. If he put his head on the pillow, he knew the dream would return like a shiver under his skin. Like a blade that penetrates the flesh with a delicateness that hurts even more. Every breath, every heartbeat, would take him back to the exact moment he slammed the door on the possibility of being something different. There, in front of him, the letter. The handwriting that had never faded from his mind, the smile that, unfortunately, he had known too well.The one of a smile that he could never forget, of an elegant handwriting that had marked his mind like a footprint that never fades. And he, there, with a simple sentence, had slammed the door right in that smile's face, as if being able to do so had meant putting an end to everything. But it was never that simple... It had never been.

It was a memory that pounded inside him like a hammer against an anvil, a wound that never healed. There, in his room, that handwriting was the shard of glass that tore his soul, which forced him to relive his fragility. The mistake he had made had never been just a mistake, it had become a tangle of regrets and remorse that tightened around him, like a vice that he could no longer loosen. Answering Lan Qiren’s handwriting, which had reopened the door to a past that Jiang Cheng had buried under tons of anger and pain, was like asking his heart to remember a wound that wouldn’t heal. It was like asking a stone to blossom. The truth that he was trying not to see, yet he knew that responding to that letter would be like taking back a part of himself that he had tried to lose, but there was nothing more painful than returning to that part that had broken his heart.

Why? Why did responding to Lan Qiren seem so difficult? The question tormented him, swirling around in his head like an icy wind that never found rest. He knew the answer, but he didn't want to admit it. After all, Lan Qiren had never asked him to be anything other than a disciple and a leader. Yet, answering meant admitting that everything he had built around himself, all his defenses, his beliefs, were as fragile as glass. Lan Qiren, the master who had taught him to be strong, to never give in, would never have wanted to see that weakness of his, that desire to give in to a calligraphy that asked for nothing more than to be heard. Lan Xichen... Oh, Lan Xichen. That gaze, so distant, that made him feel like a poor castaway on a desert island. Lan Xichen was delicacy, wonder, elegance, not a heart that had shattered so many times that it could no longer put itself back together.

Jiang Cheng looked away from the bed, but his heart remained prisoner to that gesture. As if the simple and banal object that represented his loneliness, now become a sworn enemy, dared him to look at it. The bed, which had once welcomed his rest, was now only a memory of things left unsaid, of choices he hadn't had the courage to make, of nights spent chasing dreams that slipped through his fingers. Now it was no longer a stretch of soft sheets, but a precipice that threatened to swallow him. His eyes fell on the parchment, the weight of the paper becoming unbearable. He had to answer. He had to do it, out of duty, out of that ethic that had shaped him, that had taught him to never give up, to never look back. But every fiber of his being screamed at him that this letter, this message from Lan Qiren, was not to be read, was not to be answered. "You're exaggerating," he told himself, but his inner voice trembled with doubt. The past had to remain where it was, hidden under the weight of what cannot be changed. But how could wehe forget? How could he not see those faces that spoke to him from afar, those ghosts that were reflected in the glass of his loneliness?

But if I didn't carry the burden, who would?

It was a thought that had been in his head for too long. The others had their battles, their dreams of glory, their paths that led them away from him. They were busy looking at each other, counting their losses and their gains, counting their wounds and their victories. But him? He didn't have the luxury of stopping and looking back. He had no right to ever stop. The others glided through life, some like butterflies landing on flowers, others like snakes slithering through the shadows so as not to be seen, but he… he was different. His path was a path that wound through the ruins, dotted with stones and rubble, with choices that had never had another option. Every step he took took him further and further from peace, from that refuge he would have liked to seek for himself. But he couldn't. He never had.

His heart, which had once beaten with the strength of a young man searching for hope, was now reduced to a mass of iron and pain. Tempered by battle, hardened by revenge, Jiang Cheng’s heart was like a sword forged in fire, but the fire had left scars. Like steel, indestructible at first sight, but full of thin, invisible cracks that made themselves felt every now and then. A hint of weakness, a breeze caressing his skin and making him tremble. The wind blowing through the cracks of his heart forced him to see what he had tried to ignore, the fragility hidden beneath his layer of anger, beneath his armor of duty.

He had never wanted to see those slits. He had closed his eyes, his ears, his hands on those small cracks, hoping that time would close them by itself, that his strength, his determination, would make that weakness evaporate like smoke in the air. But now, those cracks called him, reminded him that there was no way to escape, that there was no way to escape from himself.

Every decision he'd made, every step he'd taken, had taken him further and further from who he'd been. Jiang Cheng had never stopped to think about what he truly wanted. His life had been a succession of responses dictated by duty, by a sense of justice, by the need to be the stick that held up the world that was collapsing around him. There were no options for him, only obligations. And the weight of that burden hurt, but how could he let it go?  He sighed, and in that breath there was all the fatigue of a life spent running, without ever stopping to look at the road traveled, without ever allowing himself to ask himself if the direction was the right one. His breath burned in his lungs, yet he knew he had to continue. Couldn't stop. He shouldn't. Because if he had stopped, if he had looked back, the cracks in his heart would have opened up and swallowed everything. He was a destroyed man, but no one would ever know. This was a man who had learned to survive, who had learned to hide his weakness beneath layers of anger and duty. But every now and then, when the wind blew too hard, he heard his armor creak. And in those moments, when his armor seemed vulnerable, the question became increasingly louder: Was it worth carrying all this weight? 

But as always, his conscience slapped him, the sound of that blow reverberating in his mind like thunder that never subsided. Is it worth it? The answer never came, but the memory did. The memory of what it came from. The anger that had grown him like a plant in arid, merciless soil. A hatred that had been given to him as an inheritance, like a gift that was never asked for, but that was imposed on you. A burden that, unlike every other, you could never throw away. It was etched in his blood, and he knew it.

Jiang Cheng felt crushed by the weight of his very existence, as if his body had become a container for all the poison the world had poured on him, a fragile bottle that, at any moment, could break. His conscience hurt him more than any physical blow, that voice inside that did nothing but scream at him Is it worth it? Every time he repeated that question, the words seemed like a cry that echoed in the abyss of his mind, yet there was never an answer, only the unbearable silence of the truth that he didn't want to look at.

It was as if that poison that flowed through his veins was not just an inheritance, but a condemnation, a curse with no way out. And that curse, that burden, had grown him. Every step he had taken, every action he had taken, had been governed by the fury that had been instilled in him since birth, a fury that had made him what he was: a person who no longer knew what forgiveness was, who no longer had the ability to feel free from the pain that had been inflicted on him. Anger had been his land, the soil in which he grew up. A barren land, where there was no space for flowers or trees, only thorns that scratched him and kept him rooted to the ground.

His life had never been a path towards something good, healthy, kind. His very blood had begun to flow with the bitter taste of someone who had never had a moment to breathe, of someone who had been raised with hatred and distrust that had crept into his heart from the first breath. The snakes, those two figures who were supposed to protect and guide him, had never shown love for him. They had looked at him as a mere promise, a title to carry forward, a thing to build, without ever wondering what was inside him, without ever wondering if he was really their son, if he was a creature capable of feeling affection. Its roots had slipped into rivers of poison. He had never known the sweet contact of a real hug, of a caress that had no ulterior motives. The cradle that welcomed him was one of hatred, his first tears were made of resentment, and his first smiles had a bitter taste, the taste of those who grow to survive, not to live. A body that carried a stormy soul, a storm that never showed signs of abating. The scars were not only on his skin, but inside him, like an infinity of small blades that moved invisibly but incessantly. Each wound had never healed, only slipped deep inside, hidden under the cloak of anger that enveloped him, protecting him from the sight of others, but also from himself.

Yet, in that moment of absolute silence, something came to his mind like a flash in the dark. What if there was something else? What if poison wasn’t all I am? The question settled within him, small and silent as a seed growing in his chest. His body tensed for a moment, an unfamiliar sensation hitting him, as if the weight he had carried for so long had begun to slip away, leaving an open wound. An emptiness. The poison he had always thought was his only asset was beginning to dissolve, leaving behind only the residue of what he thought was his only purpose in life. Anger, that poison that had nourished him, that had defended and killed him at the same time, was losing strength. And in that moment, he realized that this anger was not his nature, but a response to everything that had been done to him, a distorted reflection of a world that had never given him peace. The loneliness he carried inside was not just the loneliness of the boy who had lost his family, but the loneliness of the son of someone who didn't even know how to welcome his own creature into the world. 

Jiang Cheng had believed he was just a snake, imbued with poison, a monster who had learned to defend himself with his claws and his sour gaze. But now, as the question rumbled in his chest, he began to feel the weight of his different existence. Those walls were starting to give way, cracks slowly opening, and behind them there wasn't just the poison he had learned to call home. There was something more, something that he had never allowed himself to see: the pain of a child who had never stopped hoping, the desire to be loved, to be accepted. But this also meant coming to terms with the idea that, perhaps, the world would never give him that comfort. Or, worse yet, that he himself could never forgive himself for being what he had become.

But there was a truth that he couldn't ignore, a part of himself that cried out loudly to get out of that prison of resentment. Jiang Cheng was not just the child of hatred. It wasn't just that snake that bit at every turn. His skin, the skin that had adapted to the poison, was beginning to change, to suffer. The snake teeth that had imbued his tongue with anger were no longer the same. There was no more poison to spill. His heart began to empty, and with it, the poison. He had been forged by pain, but there was no longer the strength to keep him alive, to nourish him. His inner snake had no more venom to release. Instead, he felt empty. Like a river that can't flow anymore, like a heart that has stopped beating. And that empty feeling was wearing him down. And now, what will you do? his conscience asked him. What will remain of you, without the anger that gave you shape?

The question had no answer, because he no longer knew who he was, outside of the anger he had learned to call home.

Chapter Text

"Let down and hanging around
Crushed like a bug in the ground
Let down and hanging around."

It was the middle of the night, and the moon, high and distant like an impartial judge, seemed to watch over the world with the same inflexibility with which Lan Qiren had watched over the righteousness of others for years. But who watched over him? The silver queen in the sky, alone on the cloud throne, was a reflection of what he had become; an undisputed authority, but alone, sculpted by devotion to duty, surrounded by subjects of light who feared getting too close. Its light fell at times like alabaster feathers, drawing thin, sculpted shadows on the ground. Those stars, those little breaths of the universe, retreated like children who fear a father who has always loved them... only in silence, only from afar.

Each star that trembled in his gaze was not just a light in the sky, but a memory that Lan Qiren had avoided naming. They trembled like words never said, guilt never confessed, gestures held back. They seemed to whisper, We saw you even when you chose not to see. Every time he raised his eyes, he did so with the pretense of seeking order, but in the sky there was no order, only chaotic beauty — like the hearts of men he had failed to understand, and therefore had punished. And if the stars were fearful children, then what was he, if not the father who had never known how to caress without correcting? Lan Qiren looked down, but the sky remained within him. It burned behind his eyes, as if each star had engraved its own light and accusation inside him. Those tiny lights had undressed him, they had seen him... really seen him. Not for what he had become, but for what he had left to rot in a corner of his soul. How many eyes had he closed, how many ears had he stopped, how many words left unsaid just to preserve the image of the Master? And what did it mean to be Master now, under that sky that did not forgive but remembered?

The wind caressed his face with the cruel lightness of one who has no weight but leaves marks. It was the same wind that once blew through his brother's hair. The same one that had taken away voices, screams, laughter. And regrets. The wind caressed his hair, loose, disobedient, once chained in a high and flawless bun, as if to whisper that even the most rigid spirits, sooner or later, give in to the breeze of doubt. The ribbon that surrounded his forehead and his head, an almost timid blue, disappeared among the dark logs, shone like winter branches under the frost, and the comb, a silver ornament engraved with almost imperceptible delicacy, sparkled like the memory of an oath never broken. It wasn't just an accessory, but a silent warning: "remember who you are, even when everything inside you tries to forget it." His hanfu, a living vestige of the Lan lineage, was not a simple garment, but a shell sewn with the rules of heaven. Wearing it was like wrapping himself in a vow. The deep blue of the fabric, similar to the heart of an ocean that has never seen the light, enveloped Lan Qiren with the grace of an endless night. That color, carefully chosen, was like a mirror of icy water: it reflected the immobility and depth of his spirit, but beneath the surface there were slow and dangerous currents, ready to swallow up anyone who dared to get too close.

The robe was made of superimposed layers, like the masks of the man who wore it. Each layer an age, a secret, a regret stitched with a fine needle and thread of silence. The white slip, barely visible, was the part of her that was still intact, the part that had never stopped believing in the purity of intent. The dark blue band that encircled her hips seemed like a chain made for beauty, but built to contain. Knotted with the meticulousness of a sacred ritual, it was as tight as the discipline that had been imposed on him as a child, and that as an adult he had learned to impose on himself. The high collar of his hanfu grazed his throat like a silk chain. The wide, embroidered sleeves fell down his arms like the hands of someone who had tried to restrain him. Maybe Lan Xichen. Maybe Lan Wangji. Maybe none of them. Maybe only himself, in a version so distant that now it seemed to belong to another man. What if that composure that he honored so much was actually a cage? A silver cage, sculpted with honor, duty, rigor... but still a cage.

Every step taken in the silence of Gusu's corridors, every ordered whipping, every word sharp as ice... they were just bricks of a wall that he himself had erected, yes, but around his own heart. Lan Qiren raised his gaze again towards the moon, his always companion, and in that still light he finally saw the question he had never dared to ask himself."Who would you have been, if you had allowed yourself even just once to make mistakes ?" And perhaps, in that moment, as the silence of the night grew thicker than the air, Lan Qiren understood that the stars did not tremble for fear of him. They were trembling because he, unlike them, had forgotten how to shine.

Lan Qiren was there again, like every night when he didn't know where else to go but inside himself. Sitting on the usual boulder which, by now, seemed to have taken the shape of his body and the memory of his weight. Still, but not at peace. His rigorous posture, which had made it almost second nature, now did nothing but mask a whirlwind of emotions that even he could no longer contain. Every single gesture, from the care with which he tied the ribbon on his forehead to the precise folding of the sleeves of his hanfu, seemed like an act of self-completion, as if he wanted to force himself to become something he no longer was. A man in order. A man in control. Yet, the nature around him seemed to have no mercy. The winds lashed his skin with the force of an unwanted embrace, as if to remind him that no amount of rigor, no armor of order, would ever be enough to stop the urgency of what he felt. The wind was cruel, it didn't know how to stop, it didn't know how to ask permission. It crept beneath the folds of his robe, ruffling his thoughts as easily as it shook the trees.

There wasn't even a star that dared to shine directly above him. The moon looked at him like a silent judge, ready to inflict the sentence of a darkness that would never dissipate again. Every night the same scene was repeated, Lan Qiren looked up towards the sky, hoping for something different, but he only found the immobility of a cosmos that didn't care about his pains. The stars, small and jealous, hid behind the clouds as if they could, somehow, also escape from what Lan Qiren carried inside. Deep down, something hidden in Lan Qiren was finally giving up, like a tide that unfortunately couldn't stop. Every fiber of his body, every tense muscle, seemed to beg to give in, to let slip away the mask of cold and control that he had forced himself to wear for years. The heart, that heart that he had tried to tame with discipline and duty, beat for an instant with a vulnerability that he had never dared to allow himself. It was a feeling he couldn't quell, something that burned deep in his soul, but which, once again, he didn't know how to recognize as a legitimate feeling. Crying. Feeling fragile. Give in. These concepts seemed as foreign to him as a language he had never learned to speak.

He had built a dam around himself, layer after layer, with the task of protecting what he thought was his truth: that perfection and rigor were the only ways to remain intact. But this dam, which initially seemed to him as solid as a mountain, now faltered. Too hastily constructed. Too far from his essence to bear the weight of what was happening inside him. Every night, with the wind whipping at his robes and the moon watching him from afar, that dam gave way one centimeter at a time, like an earth slowly collapsing under the weight of itself. The storm that threatened to overthrow her was not that of external nature, but that which dwelt in her heart: a primordial energy that was beginning to make itself felt. Every thought that stirred inside him was like a stone thrown against a wall of sand, shaking him more and more. But he would never allow it to collapse. He would never let that wall crumble in front of others.

Lan Qiren knew. He had learned all too well not to give in, not to be vulnerable. He learned that weakness was not a luxury he could afford. His honor, his position, everything that gave him a sense of control and worth, depended on his ability to maintain rigor, to never bend. Yet, in those lonely moments, with his solitary figure under the starless sky, he felt that something inside him was changing. He didn't want to admit it, but he felt it. The pain he had put aside for years could not remain silent forever. Now it was surfacing, slowly flooding his mind and body, and with it a painful, unshakable realization: he too was human. He too needed something other than the solitude of duty and discipline.The storm that threatened to break down his dam was a storm of emotions no longer controllable. Every night, when the wind caressed his skin with its coolness, Lan Qiren felt his heart beating faster. It was as if nature itself was challenging him, asking him to give in, to let go of his armor. Yet he couldn’t. Not yet. Every time he tried to let his emotion surface, a sudden surge of fear made him retreat. Afraid of what he would see if he lowered his shield, afraid of being seen for who he truly was. 

The silence of the night was heavy, like a blanket falling to the earth, cold and unforgiving, as Lan Qiren sat on the boulder. Every movement of the wind seemed like a call, a caress that slipped through his messy hair, as if nature itself wanted to comfort him, but couldn't. His eyes, fixed on the moon that did not look at him, reflected a sadness that was older than him, deeper than the earth he stood on. The moon, pale and distant, seemed to watch him with a look that knew everything but offered no comfort. Every time he tried to push away that feeling, the wind seemed to bring back memories, like a melody he could never forget. The boulder below him, so solid and firm, had become his only anchor, a symbol of his resistance. But resistance came at a price. Every time he hugged himself, as if he wanted to keep the loneliness inside himself, he felt empty, like a cup that never fills completely. The moss on that boulder seemed like a living memory, impregnated with a scent that took him back in time. That musk had the taste of truth, but also of disappointment. It was the scent of a past that could no longer be changed, of a life that could no longer be started anew. 

"Truth," he said to himself, as if that word were the only thing he had left. But what did this really mean to him? A truth he couldn't express, couldn't share? A truth which, the more it accompanied him, the more it made him stranger to himself. His life, his essence, seemed shrouded in a veil of fog, and the more he tried to penetrate that darkness, the further he moved away from the light. Every thought that passed through his head seemed to escape him, to dissolve like smoke, as he remained rooted to that spot.The rock he sat on, although comfortable, couldn't soothe the silent pain throbbing inside him. It was like a fleeting caress, a temporary relief compared to the caress of a hug, which could chase away the cold that was accumulating in his heart. The solitude he had so desired, which he had carefully built and guarded like an impenetrable fortress, now revealed itself as a prison. It wasn't the safe shelter he'd hoped it would be, but a growing weight crushing his chest, like a boulder he couldn't lift. The moss beneath him, which seemed to whisper truths he didn't want to hear, gave off a bittersweet smell that took him back to a distant past, to a time when things seemed simpler and less complex. Memories peeked out, evasive, between the folds of his heart, like a melody that wove between the darkness and the light, a harmony he could no longer reach. 

He remembered his nephews, small and pure, hidden in the shadows of the trees, intent on watching the moon reflected in the river. They huddled together, seeking a comfort that only the other's presence could offer, as if that gesture of embracing each other was a refuge from the fears that the night brought with it. And he, there, in the shadows, observed them. He saw them, but he couldn't touch them, he couldn't feel them, he couldn't hug them as he would have liked. The loneliness, increasingly profound, overwhelmed him. Their every laugh, every smile, every exchange of caresses, which seemed so natural to them, made him feel further away, like a stranger who had no right to share those sweet fragilities.

They oppressed him, like a weight he couldn't shake off. He saw them hugging each other, looking for each other in the dark, and every movement, every gesture, hit him like a blow to the heart. It was not envy, no. It wasn't just a simple wish. It was a deep void, an absence that dug a groove in his chest, a hole that would never find an answer. He couldn't get close to them, he couldn't allow himself to be seen. He remained there, hidden, helpless, in the silence that enveloped the scene, where the children's voices were like distant songs, ethereal and light. The laughter that mingled with the night air, the sound of their happiness, entered his soul like a thin blade, opening a wound that would never heal. And so, he hugged himself alone, unaware of the gesture, as if his own solitude was the only remedy he could give himself, as if it were the only way to anesthetize the cold that besieged him. His arms tightened around himself, trying to hold onto a fragment of something that always escaped, like a butterfly that, even though it landed on his skin, immediately detached itself to fly away. The loneliness that he had chosen to wear like armor, like a voluntary choice, now crushed him, forced him into a dark corner from which he could no longer free himself. That same loneliness that had once protected him, had made him invulnerable, now seemed only an unbearable weight, a chain that tied him to an endless abyss.

Every laugh, every hug that escaped him from afar hit him like a sharp blade. It wasn't envy or jealousy, not at all. It was as if that happiness that others allowed themselves, that tenderness that he had never asked for, ripped away a piece of himself, every time, without mercy. There was no resentment in his eyes, only a sad awareness, that of having lost the right to that tenderness, of having chosen isolation for too long, and now the price was too high to pay. It wasn't about wanting to be in their place, no, but about a loss that he could no longer make up for. The warmth that those children exchanged, so natural and innocent, touched him like a breeze that never managed to reach his heart, cold and distant. It was like a star that shone too far to touch, a dream that dissolved as soon as he tried to grasp it. And there, in the shadows, he was left alone. In that solitude that he had chosen to protect himself, there was now nothing left to do. He could no longer go back. Every single hug, every laugh that didn't belong to him, seemed to push him further and further away, as if his very existence was dissolving into the shadows, without ever being able to find a refuge. Yet, his solitude was his only company, his only comfort. A comfort that only exacerbated the pain, reminding him of how much he had lost. 

How many times had Lan Qiren forced himself to hate his nephew's choices as they grew up? Maybe too many, for his own sanity. Every step they took, every decision they made, stood like a wall that he had to break down, even though he knew he would never be able to change their course. Yet, deep down, there was a part of him that couldn't detach himself from that child who, years before, knelt in front of the Graces' house, hoping that the door would open. He hoped that door would open wide to reveal a mother ready to welcome him with the warmth of a hug, a gesture that only an innocent heart could understand. Lan Wangji, now a man, carried with him a thread of hope that seemed to rustle in the folds of his heart like an old manuscript that no one would ever be able to read through. That fragment of innocence, of a childhood that had never truly known the weight of hatred, still shone like a sliver of glass, fragile and bright, hidden deep inside. There, in his heart, a secret writing was hidden, like a lost language, written with the ink of maternal love, the kind of love that spread silently, like golden sand, between the fingers of those who were lucky enough to receive it. It was a language that spoke of tenderness and security, a language that knew how to nourish the heart and soothe the deepest wounds, like a caress that flows from the heart of those who are not afraid to love. 

Lan Qiren, in his dark corner, with the weight of his regrets piling up like boulders on his chest, realized, with acute pain, that he could never offer Lan Wangji that same security, that same tranquility that only a mother could give. It was like an old, bare tree that had forgotten how to flourish, its roots now marked by the frost of too many winters, unable to offer the shelter it had once promised. Despite everything, Lan Wangji held that spark of innocence, but Lan Qiren could no longer get close to it. Like a precious object glimmering at the bottom of a rushing river, that part of Lan Wangji remained distant and unreachable.

The language of that boy who had grown into a man was not understandable to Lan Qiren. It was like trying to read a book written in an ancient, forgotten language, where the words slip away, dancing just out of reach of the mind. Lan Wangji's unspoken words were like notes in a melody that couldn't be played completely, a whisper that went unnoticed by those who didn't know how to listen. Only a mother could have deciphered that silent message, that writing that was not read with the eyes but was perceived with the heart. A maternal love that, like a breath of wind, knew how to lift the weight of fear and untie the knots of the heart. Lan Qiren felt that connection like an invisible rope binding him to his nephew, but it was a bond that eluded his understanding. It was like a silk thread lost in the wind, something he tried to touch, but could never hold. The knowledge that he would never be able to fully understand that bond tormented him, like an invisible scar that never healed. The language of maternal love was foreign to him, like a sound he had never learned to recognize. Yet, in those moments of silence, Lan Qiren felt the desire to finally be able to decipher Lan Wangji's heart, to open that door that had remained closed for too long. But that door, that door that he had hoped to open so much, remained closed, and with it, Lan Wangji's heart, which continued to guard his secret, intangible and distant like the light of a star that could never be reached. 

Over the years, Lan Wangji had built a silent wall around himself, a shield that protected him from the internal storm that devoured him. That silence, which had initially been a refuge, had become an invisible prison, where his emotions accumulated like boulders, a weight that he could never reveal to anyone. Yet, in the heart of that solitude, Lan Xichen seemed to be the only one capable of seeing beyond the curtain of silence, of deciphering that secret language that Lan Wangji had learned to speak over the years. It was a language that didn't use words, but gestures, glances, fleeting touches that only those who truly loved it could interpret. Lan Xichen saw it, understood it, embraced it without needing words, without criticizing, without asking. There was no judgment in his eyes, only understanding. But as Lan Wangji grew stronger in his silence, in his refuge, that strength turned into something Lan Qiren could not accept. Because that strength, that silent determination, had led him to make choices that Lan Qiren couldn't forgive. He couldn't understand, he couldn't see that the path that Lan Wangji had chosen was nothing more than a reflection of the same path that he himself, in another life, had traced for him.

Lan Qiren had built a path of rigid rules, of intransigent rigor, without any mercy. Every step had to be perfect, every move had to be calculated, every breath had to stay within the lines he had drawn. Yet when Lan Wangji, his nephew, had finally had the courage to stray from that path, to seek something that was more than a law, more than a rule, Lan Qiren punished him. He punished Lan Wangji for seeking a way out that he himself had imposed on him. He was like a blacksmith who had forged a sword so sharp, so precise, that he now hurt himself every time he held it in his hands. His mind, trapped between the laws of duty, could not forgive the step his nephew had taken. He didn't see the truth Lan Wangji was looking for, that truth hidden in the heart of a love that, however wild and unexpected, was his salvation.

Wei Wuxian, that morning bird that sang at dawn, represented the heat that melted the coldest heart, the sweet breeze that ruffled the most petrified thoughts. Lan Wangji, with his heart beating strong and pure in the embrace of that love, had never thought about betraying his family. He wasn't looking for an enemy, he wasn't trying to destroy the past. He was looking for his truth, his refuge, his place in a world that had always seemed too narrow for him. Yet to Lan Qiren, that truth was an open wound. He couldn't look past his pride, past the rules he had imposed. His mind refused to accept that Lan Wangji, in that desperate search for warmth, had found refuge in something so different, so far away from what he considered right. Lan Qiren felt like an old tree, its roots numb with time, unable to grow, unable to open his arms and embrace his nephew. He felt like a man trapped in a maze of mistakes and regrets, unable to escape. He would have liked, with all his heart, to dress Lan Wangji's wedding with joy, with pride. He wanted to clap and cry, like any father should. But how could he do it, when the weight of the past was crushing him, when the memory of the thirty-three lashes he had given Lan Wangji still burned his hands? Every tear Lan Wangji hadn't shed, every scar he bore on his body, was his fault. He was responsible for that pain, for that loneliness that now separated them.  

Yet, the pain Lan Qiren felt wasn't just from what he had done to Lan Wangji. It was also because of what he had done to Lan Xichen. He had ignored him, let him freeze in the shadows, like a plant that never gets the sun. Lan Xichen, who had always tried to stay calm, not to disturb, not to make himself heard, had been left in the dark for too long. Lan Qiren felt as if he had condemned his nephew to a life of silence, as if he had placed Lan Xichen's heart inside a cage that no key could ever open. Now, as the pain of the past consumed him, Lan Qiren understood too late that everything that had happened was his fault. He had ignored Lan Xichen, he had ignored his pain, his need to be seen, to be heard. And now, with a heart full of regrets, he realized that the doors he had closed, the opportunities he had let slip, would never return.

The only thing that gave him peace, even if just a thread of peace, a thin breath among the darkness that drowned his heart, was being there, sitting on that freezing boulder, whose cold seemed to permeate his flesh, but which at the same time gave him a form of support. His soul, crushed by the weight of years of regret, had merged with the pain, so much so that it seemed that every fiber of his body was a prolonged wound that would never stop bleeding. The boulder itself had become his only refuge, a corner of silence and solitude where suffering would never end, but where at least he could bear it. The moss that grew on the stones, like a blanket of dead life, was nothing more than a symbol of that stillness that never healed, but which imprisoned him like an invisible trap. There, in the heart of that starless night, every breath he took was a burning memory of times gone by, of unspoken truths and promises never kept. Every breath of air felt like a laceration, a suffocated cry that remained trapped in his chest. 

Lan Xichen's house, which stood out like a distant but present point, was a prison that looked at him with eyes full of shadows. It was close, but so far away, like a dream that could never be achieved, a boat that remains anchored to the shore, while the sea slowly swallows it. Lan Qiren could see the flickering light of the lantern through the window, but it was not heat that it gave off, but rather a dying flame, like the beating of a heart that was about to fail. The lantern seemed to laugh at him, at that distance it could not bridge. The house was full of sounds, those sounds that tore at his soul like sharp blades: the crying, the heartbreaking and unmistakable one, which came out of that house like an echo that was reflected in the abyss of his heart. The crash of objects breaking, the sound of pieces shattering, it felt like even the house itself was crying, as if the pain inside was too great to contain, and the world itself was aware of it. 

And while the crying mixed with the distant sounds, Lan Qiren, still under that moon that watched him wordlessly, could do nothing but pray. Praying with every fiber of his being, like a man who knows he can't change anything, but who has no choice but to seek mercy, like a condemned man who silently pleads for his execution, hoping for a mercy that will never come. He prayed to the moon, which, like an ancient witness, did not judge, did not scream, but listened in silence. The moon, who knew the truth of every action, the weight of every choice, looked at him like a confidant who had no right to speak, but who somehow was there, making every moment of remorse weigh on him. The moon looked down at him, but he could see nothing but emptiness. Every ray the moon cast on him was a blow to the heart, a condemnation of what he had done and what he had never been able to do.

Lan Qiren was a man who had lived years and years in the cold of his own rigidity, but now, in that solitude under the moon, he felt the weight of pain that accumulated in him like a river that could no longer find its banks. Every breath he took seemed to be a breath of ash, every heartbeat a drum beating against the walls of a collapsing castle. His soul, once solid as rock, was now just dust scattering in the wind. The rock he was sitting on no longer gave him the comfort of firmness; it had become just a mirage of what it had once represented: a place of breathing, of peace, now just an empty place where memories clung like thorns in a body that no longer knew how to heal.

Lan Qiren's gaze, lost in the night, slowly moved towards Lan Xichen's house, that house that now seemed like a broken refuge, a nest that no bird dared to inhabit anymore. The bamboo surrounding the house trembled in the wind, but it seemed that nothing could shake the pain that had taken root within those walls. There, far but close, Lan Qiren could see the lit lantern, a flame struggling against the darkness like a life trying to weather the storm. Yet, that flame was unable to warm the heart which, inside, broke in silence. The cry that rose from that house was not just the cry of a broken man, but the cry of a wound that Lan Qiren himself had inflicted, without ever knowing how painful it would be. Every fragment that fell, every tear that was shed in that house, was a piece of himself that was gone. In that silence broken by pain, Lan Qiren knelt in his heart, in front of the moon that did nothing but look at him with judgmental eyes. The moon, which had always witnessed his secrets, his solitudes, now observed him like a lighthouse that showed him the truth he could not escape. A truth that was consuming him bit by bit.

As Lan Qiren prayed, his voice trembled in the night air, but the words were no longer prayers, no longer required. They were desperate pleas, muffled screams in the heart of a man who was sinking under the weight of his sins, like a ship sinking in a sea that would never stop swallowing him. The moon, cold and distant, watched, but could do nothing but reflect its shadow, like a silent judge looking at the man on his knees under his implacable gaze. Lan Qiren no longer asked for forgiveness, he no longer hoped to be listened to. He only asked that Lan Xichen's pain be taken from him, that it be shifted onto his shoulders, that all the weight he had inflicted on his innocent nephew fall on him. 

Lan Qiren prayed with a desperation that tore at his own voice, his soul like a rock being shattered by incessant hammering. Every word that came out of his mouth felt like a blade sticking into his chest, but there was no blood to be shed. There was nothing that could calm the fury that consumed him. His prayer was a supplication, but there was no mercy. His body, now worn out, bent like a dry tree under the weight of an invisible cross, which pierced his shoulders like thorns stuck in the flesh. It was the cross of all his sins, of all the mistakes he had made over the years, and now, as the sky above him shone with a cold and indifferent moon, he realized that the weight would never be lifted. Every step he took took him further from hope, dragged him further and further down, into a swamp of regrets that he had never been able to bury.

The crown of thorns he imagined himself wearing pierced his mind, each point a wound that would be inflicted on the depths of his being. Each thorn not only represented his failure, but the irretrievability of lost time. Every single mistake rang in his chest like a blow that never stopped hurting. He was no longer a man, but a sea of ​​scars that would never heal. Every memory that resurfaced, every look that was reflected in the eyes of his grandchildren, became a thorn that penetrated him more deeply, and the blood that flowed was nothing other than the shame of a heart that had condemned itself. Lan Qiren, without strength, without hope, only wished for someone, something, to take this torment away from him. His prayer was no longer a supplication, but a desperate request for purification, for an extreme liberation that could never come. He would have liked to feel a spear sticking into his side, as if only that physical pain, that agony that tore at his flesh, was the way to calm what was inside him. He was no longer the man who was looking for peace, but a soul who had stopped believing he deserved salvation. It was the agony of the sacrifice that never ends, of the man who offers himself as a victim on an altar that does not exist, which has no purpose other than to tear the flesh from his body to atone for a sin that cannot be forgiven. Every breath he took felt like a sledgehammer crushing his heart, every step he took took him further from redemption. There was nothing human anymore about him. He was just living flesh, bleeding, torn apart by the memory of what he had caused. He could no longer be anything but his own executioner.

And the moon, that damned moon that watched him, was nothing more than a merciless judge, watching his pain like a lookout that does nothing to prevent the execution. There was no grace in its light, only a cold indifference that laid it bare. Lan Qiren was now nothing more than a beast walking with the burden of a crime that would never be erased. Every memory, every step he had taken in his life dragged him further down, like a river that swallowed him, buried him under an avalanche of guilt and remorse. And then the spear. The spear sticking into his body like a sharp dagger, and there was no pain that could compare to what he felt inside. The spear would not only have torn his flesh, but would have penetrated his heart, would have slowly devoured him, like a flame that burns damp, smoky wood, without ever consuming it completely. The spear would not have killed him, it would have made him remain alive in a condition of eternal suffering, where the body no longer knows whether it is alive or dead, but it is an abyss that swallows it anyway. 

He, who had seen his grandchildren grow up, had distanced them from his life, closed in a silence that had hurt them more than his words. Now, as he felt loneliness scratching at him like sharp nails, he realized that his actions had drawn lines of pain that were impossible to erase. Wei Wuxian, who had never had the chance to be truly seen by Lan Qiren's eyes, who had snuck into Lan Wangji's heart like a storm that nothing could stop, had now already paid the price...only because Lan Qiren was a fucking coward who was ashamed of the judgment of the moon that condemned him, and he knew it.  And Lan Xichen, the most fragile of his grandchildren, now looked at him from afar, sunk in his own suffering, prisoner of a house that he had wanted to provide refuge but which had become only a cage. And Lan Qiren, in that endless solitude, felt himself to be the cause of everything. His hands were no longer those of a master, but of a condemned man, and the only thing he wanted was to be crushed by all that he had caused.

Lan Qiren prayed to be stabbed in the side with a spear, as if physical pain were the only remedy for what burned inside him. He would have liked to feel the spear sticking in him, like an extreme purification, like an end that would take away every breath and every thought, to leave him free from the weight of his own conscience. He wanted to be a martyr, because only then he could atone. Only in this way could he disappear into his suffering, get lost in it like the sun setting on the horizon, leaving only a shadow that soon vanishes.

Yet, there wasn't even the possibility of a sweet ending. His was a slow death, a death that would never grant him rest. Every beat of his heart was like a whiplash that tore him from the inside, as if the very flesh was being torn away from him, slowly and mercilessly. His heart, that same heart that he had tried to protect, that same heart that now turned to ashes under the weight of his remorse, would be torn from his chest while it still beat, while it still tried to live. Yet, he knew he would never be the same again. Each beat seemed to sound like a hammer blow on a hot iron, deforming it, changing it, destroying it. Lan Qiren knelt, but he no longer felt part of that earth. He felt only dust, dust that the wind carried away, as if his body were now just an empty shell, a remnant of the past. His hands, which had tried so hard to build and protect, were now trembling, incapable of grasping anything. He couldn't hold anything, not even himself. Every breath he took seemed to consume him, like a flame that burned without ceasing, a flame that devoured his soul, leaving only ash behind. 

Lan Qiren could no longer deny the truth that was tearing him alive from within, with the cruel slowness of a beast that feeds on the heart of its prey while it still beats. It was him. Him. The blade. The poison. The source of ruin. Every step Lan Xichen had taken toward that house full of lies, toward Jin Guangyao's poisonous smile, had been engraved on the stone of destiny by his hand. Every gesture he had made with blind trust, every word spoken with hope in his eyes, had been the echo of his lessons, his laws, his suffocating rules and his morality sewn on him like a shroud. It was he, Lan Qiren, who had shaped a good heart to become deaf. Who had taught Lan Xichen to close his eyes to the shadow, to silence the voice of doubt with the strength of duty. It was he who had led him like a lamb to the slaughter, with the torch of righteousness that instead of illuminating had burned, charred everything that was fragile, sensitive, human. Jin Guangyao had only finished the job. The corruption was planted by him, in the form of silence, repression and forced perfection. Lan Xichen's every single tear was a nail stuck under his fingernails. Every cry of pain that rose from that house was a whip that lacerated his back. Lan Qiren felt his chest crack, his ribs open like a fragile shell, and underneath… only raw flesh, a trembling heart and guilt that would never stop bleeding.

The moon watched him. White. Cold. Cruel like a silent judge. And he was no longer looking for redemption. He didn't deserve it. He wanted to tear his heart out of his chest with his bare hands, place it on a sacrificial altar and watch it burn alive. He would have liked to open his flesh, empty his bowels and leave them to rot in Gusu's snow, as punishment for not knowing how to love in the right way. For making the law a gospel of pins and irons. For having built golden cages in which he had locked his grandchildren, until he watched them go mad in the prison of his own expectations. Wei Wuxian, the boy he had hate, had never been the devil. He had raised the real devil. He had educated him. Blind. Silent. Obedient. He had led him by the hand to hell. And he had told him that it was right this way. The moon would never forgive him.

But the worst part was that even Lan Xichen could never do it. And Lan Qiren…Lan Qiren didn't want to forgive himself. He just wanted to suffer. And suffer. And suffer. Until even the pain got tired of him. The pain would never leave him, and there was no longer any hope. Only his sentence, the one he had inflicted on himself, and the desire to disappear, to disappear into the oblivion of his own remorse. He would never find peace, he would never find stillness again. His prayer was no longer a request, but a muffled scream of a man who was tearing his soul apart, piece by piece. You wanted to disappear, lose every trace of yourself. To be a martyr, to be sacrificed for something that at least made sense. The suffering he felt was no longer just a punishment, but a desire to disappear, to vanish into the darkness as if he had never existed. His prayer was no longer for forgiveness, but for an end. An end that would never have come. 

Lan Qiren's heart was now just a bloody shred, a lump of flesh that no longer throbbed with life but with guilt. It was no longer a heart, it was an antechamber of hell, where every beat was a dull roar of repentance that disemboweled it from the inside. His shame oozed over him like a second skin made of thorns and mud, and no hanfu, no matter how noble or pure, would be enough to cover that dishonored nakedness.

The moon watched him. Motionless, solemn, like a mother who has seen her children die a thousand times - and a thousand times has learned not to scream, but to hold the pain in a silent gaze. Its light no longer caressed, it pricked. It was the accusing finger of a tired god who no longer judges but remembers. Remember everything. And Lan Qiren lowered his head, but it wasn't enough. Because there is no posture that is enough to hide a man who has made a knife his duty and has cut his own loved ones with it.. The wind picked up, as if it heard his breath hitch. But it wasn't a caress. It was a slap. A brutal blow that slammed his hair into his face, like invisible hands trying to cover his shame, like a mother still trying, desperately, to protect an unworthy child.

Lan Qiren's trembling fingers tightened around the edge of the dress, but couldn't keep it in place. I tear off a thread, because it was just a rag that could no longer cover it, too empty inside to feel hope. As the window of Lan Xichen's house was opened by a pair of outside fingers, as if something bigger and crueler than himself was trying to enter, Lan Qiren felt a pang in his chest. The curtains billowed as if the very breath of the world was trying to suffocate him, to envelop him in an embrace of death. An innocent flower lay on the ceiling beams, waving its tired petals as if it was trying to say something that even he didn't want to hear.The moon, that damned moon that had not only seen death, seemed to be the mother of everything that suffered, and yet her gaze was far away. She didn't stop to look at Lan Qiren, but he observed his grandchildren, his creatures, with the pained eyes of someone who has seen too much suffering, too much loss. She was like a mother who had died a thousand times for every tear her children had shed, and had never given up, but cried. He cried for those who were still pure, for those who didn't know what shame was, for those who hadn't learned to hide their wounds, for those who had never had to be ashamed of who they were. But she didn't cry for him, Lan Qiren. She did not cry for the guilty

The stars, like flames burning in the sky, fell into the firmament like little broken secrets, breaking upon contact with eternity. They were like punishments, slipping away from a heart that could no longer reflect the light, that no longer found a way to shine beneath the darkness of its guilt. The mother, the moon, continued to watch, but did not cry for those who were ashamed. She did not cry for those who had condemned themselves without hope of salvation. She only cried for those who remained innocent. For those who still had the capacity to dream.

And Lan Qiren, like a rock collapsing under the weight of a mountain of regrets, could do nothing but remain silent. He wanted to scream, but there was no strength in his voice anymore. The moon, mother of all things, was observing. But there was no compassion for him.

Chapter Text

"Will we ever get away from this place?
It's an image that's burned on my chest
For a moment you need me to stay"

Lan Xichen's face was caressed by the moon's rays, which delicately infiltrated through the open window, entering like a breath of wind, almost imperceptible, but tangible like the pain that nestles in the heart. The moonlight, silvery and sweet, touched his skin with a tenderness that seemed almost mocking, as if the sky itself was trying to whisper to him a truth he didn't want to hear. That light, which called him without words, penetrated his heart, touching his deepest memories, those that should have remained buried, those that time could not erase. His body reacted, but his mind seemed anchored to a dream that did not want to end, a dream that offered him refuge, but which now proved to be more dangerous than any nightmare.

The moon, whose light filtered like a thin blade, forced him to wake up. Yet he was not ready yet. Lan Xichen remained with his eyes closed, as if the whole world wanted to disappear together with the dreams that held him prisoner. He knew that dawn had not yet arrived, but at that moment the moonlight seemed more threatening than the day itself. He rolled over under the white silk sheets, which now seemed cold and disinterested, like the reality that was waiting for him beyond the dream. The silk, which normally would have caressed his skin like a sweet memory, now seemed like a bitter memory, something that deceived him like all the promises that had been made and then broken. He hugged himself tighter in the blankets, as if he wanted to hide from the world, from the reality that was starting to become too tangible.The bed was too big, too hollow. Yet he knew he was not alone. Jin Guangyao had to be there, next to him. He felt it, even if he didn't see it. Every fiber of his body remembered the warm presence of the other, the sweet confusion of a love that had never been truly clear, but which he had accepted as a reflection of his own heart. Lan Xichen stretched out an arm towards that half of the bed, trying to find him, hoping that his warm skin was still there, that that body that had welcomed him with so much passion, with so much promise of a future that would never come true, was still there. 

Lan Xichen's hand moved like a leaf skimming water, light and hesitant, searching for a hold, for something that could anchor him to reality. It extended towards Jin Guangyao's body, that body that had once promised him everything, but was now only a foreign presence, a form he could no longer understand. Lan Xichen's skin trembled at the contact, a thrill that resonated like an echo in the depths of his heart. It seemed that the whole world had stopped for an instant, that his hand had become the only fixed point in a universe that was collapsing.

The contact with Jin Guangyao's flesh was not as he expected. It wasn't warm and comforting, it wasn't the refuge he sought in his dreams. It was cold, distant, like a memory that he could no longer recognize. Lan Xichen's heart tightened into a painful knot, as if he had touched the glass of a window separating two worlds. Jin Guangyao's breathing reached his ears, deep and steady, but there was something about that breath that sounded like a sentence. An imperceptible breathlessness, a slight effort that seemed to say , you can't change anything anymore. Lan Xichen did not find the answer he was looking for, but only a silent return, the confirmation that his hand had found what he feared so much: an insurmountable distance between them.

Jin Guangyao turned around, his body moving with an unnatural ease, as if he were an automaton, a body carrying out an order without consciousness, without a heart. He didn't wake up, he didn't utter a word, he didn't make any gesture that could comfort Lan Xichen. He turned over alone, in his undisturbed sleep, while Lan Xichen's heart sank even lower, into the depths of an abyss he had never known. The hand that had previously been gently placed on Jin Guangyao's body now retreated, as if it had been burned by an invisible flame, a swift gesture that he didn't have the strength to stop. Reality gripped him in a silent grip, a cold embrace that took his breath away. Nothing was as it was supposed to be, yet everything was as it was supposed to be. Jin Guangyao, his lover, was there, alive, and his warm body seemed unreachable, like the sun that shines too bright to be touched. Lan Xichen felt like a castaway on a deserted beach, unable to abandon an island that he had always thought he knew, but which now seemed unknown to him, full of pitfalls and deception. Jin Guangyao's breath, which before seemed like a comfort, now appeared to him like an invisible chain that tied him to an unbearable truth. Every beat of Lan Xichen's heart seemed to resonate against the walls of his chest, as if he wanted to escape, but couldn't. There was no escape, and yet his mind continued to reject the evidence: none of it was real...all that had happened was just a bad dream.

But reality was there, alive and pulsating, like a poison that corroded him from the inside. Jin Guangyao, who now seemed to have taken refuge in his own sleep, was tangible proof of everything Lan Xichen didn't want to face. Jin Guangyao's every breath was like a warning, like a spear that pierced his heart and left him to pine in the pain of a love he could no longer save. Lan Xichen felt trapped in a web he had never seen, a web woven by his own hands, and yet, he couldn't break away from it. The moon, from above, observed everything, silent as always, but its lights no longer brought comfort. Lan Xichen rose from the bed, his body still trembling from the uneasiness that had gripped him. He went to the window, but the breath of the outside world failed to bring him relief. There was no air fresh enough to free him from what held him, nor light to chase away the shadow that had now grown thicker. His heart found no peace, neither in the stars, nor in the sky. The truth was there, in that room, and there was no dream that could remove it.  

Lan Xichen moved like a faint breeze, a shadow touched by the moonlight that danced shyly on his shoulders. His steps made no noise, almost as if the floor, gripped by the sweet sleepiness of the morning, did not want to wake him up completely. The world around him, still wrapped in the grip of sleep, seemed like a velvet canvas, extremely smooth and silent. His mind, dazed by the fog of dreams that had not yet faded, floated in the illusion that everything was still suspended, still, like a timeless painting.

It was just a bad dream, he kept repeating. Just a bad dream.

The smile that was emerging on his face, however, was not that of an awake man, but of a dream that was dissolving. As if, in one breath, the nightmare was melting beneath the heat of his consciousness. It was a weak smile, but true, like a drop of dew shining in the first ray of sunlight, delicate, but already aware of how the day would sweep away the night. His gestures, which seemed as automatic as those of a body devoid of will, were marked by a tranquility that was not real, but which in that moment seemed perfect, like a flower blooming in the illusion of a never-seen field of flowers. Lan Xichen's heart, still shaken by the echo of the visions that had tormented him, now beat slower, like a stream that finally finds peace after a landslide. Every heartbeat seemed to lift him, but not into flight: only in a maternal embrace of the reality that welcomed him, whispering to him that the dream was over. The images of the betrayals, of the faces that had hurt him, of the rivers of blood that had flowed through his mind, were nothing but shadows of a nightmare that vanished in the darkness, like dust that dissolves in the light.

The thought he had tried to hold in his mind as an absolute truth – Jin Guangyao's death, the loss of a love that seemed torn and corrupt – was now nothing more than sand between his fingers. It wasn't real. It had never been like this. His hand, which had trembled in response to those images of death and betrayal, now rose towards the window, as if wanting to wave away any sign of fear that still had the power to remain. The tremor that had passed through him now seemed to disappear into the air, a residue that dissolved like fog when the sun begins to warm the earth. His fingers touched the window, feeling the cold of the glass against his skin. The contact was like a small awakening, an anchor of reality that linked him to the night that was slowly disappearing. Outside, the moon was a beacon of silver light, but within him there was warmth that was slowly chasing away the cold darkness of the dream. There was no longer fear, there was no longer the fear that Jin Guangyao was an enemy. His mind, which for so long had sought meaning in a tortuous and confusing story, had now found peace. The thin lines of that reality, finally, were no longer confined to a dead-end labyrinth.

Lan Xichen closed his eyes for a moment, letting his breath slip out of his chest as if he were releasing the last burden that had held him captive. It was just a bad dream. A nightmare that, like all nightmares, was consumed the moment the light of dawn touched him. His heart had not been broken. Jin Guangyao was still alive, next to him, in the real world. There were no more shadows, there were no more anguish, only the quiet of a night that retreated with its silent step, giving way to the day. 

Lan Xichen leaned against the windowsill, the cold of the wood penetrating his flesh, like a whisper of the world, an echo of an existence older than him. The fabric of his robe, light as a caress of mist, did not counteract that sensation. The wind wrapped him in a fragile, almost shy embrace, as if nature itself was afraid of disturbing him. Every breath he took felt like a silent agreement with the night. It was as if the air was filled with forgotten memories, and the wind itself sang words that only he could hear, a melody that floated through the branches of the bamboo, as if the leaves themselves were speaking to him in a language he did not understand, but felt intimately. The leaves danced with the grace of ancient divinities, they bent and rose to the rhythm of a wind that only the night could command. They sighed softly, like silver fabrics that frayed and resurrected in a secret choreography, a ballet that only the darkest hours knew. And in that liquid silence, Lan Xichen felt like a solitary observer of a sacred ritual, a witness to something eternal, yet incredibly fragile. 

Every breath that touched him seemed like a caress from the moon, a gift that freed him from the invisible chains that weighed down his chest. Every rustle that caressed her skin was an explosion of little promises of peace. The fresh breeze that touched him entered his lungs like balm that healed invisible wounds, lifting from his bones the weight of thoughts that were too heavy to carry. It seemed as if the world was crumbling into a thousand particles, like sand that the wind mercilessly scatters. And in that stillness, Lan Xichen let himself go, feeling the wind itself calling him to a freedom he had never known.

The sound of the stream, distant but enveloping, came like a forgotten song, a sound that resonated within him, filling every corner of his mind. There was no fear in him anymore, no tension in his body. The darkness that surrounded him didn't oppress him, but liberated him. Solitude, which had once been his companion in torment, now became welcoming, a soft cloak that wrapped him in a silence that asked for nothing, but offered him everything. It was like a soul that found its space in the vast void of the universe, without the need for justification, without the need to be anything other than what it was. Solitude had become his safe haven, his silent refuge.

Yet, like a wave that cannot be stopped, a growing desire made its way into his heart, like a flame burning underwater, hidden but intense. Without thinking, like a body responding instinctively, Lan Xichen rose from the windowsill. His robe, light as a dream veil, clung to his skin as if it were part of him, like a breath that could not be separated from the body. His bare feet touched the cold floor, the contact a delicate awakening, almost imperceptible, but which gave him permission to move, to act.

The door opened under his hands like the passage to another dimension, a passage towards something he had not yet decided, but which he felt was his destination. Every step he took seemed to detach him from reality, letting his body follow a path traced by desire, not reason. The sky, still chained to the night, called him, and he responded with his body, which became flesh of the wind, part of that quiet that seemed to have always existed, and which only in that moment he could feel as his own.The mossy mass, hidden among the trees, seemed closer than it was, like a secret refuge that he knew had been waiting for him for a long time. Nature spoke to him, welcomed him like a distant son coming home. He didn't care that it was the middle of the night, that everything was wrapped in a silence that spoke only to him. He didn't even think about Jin Guangyao, who was sleeping safely away from his mind at the moment. His mind was free, his body free, and in that moment, all that mattered was the breath of the wind and the pounding of his feet on the cold ground. Reality and dream merged, and each step he took brought him closer to a peace he had never known. 

The rain fell like a silent kiss, its drops were small silver arrows that pierced the sky, without making any noise, but with a grace that seemed to arouse the heartbeat of those who welcomed them. They were whispered notes in an ancient language, a language that spoke directly to the soul, to the heart that trembled under the weight of its own scars. Every drop seemed to purify, as if it had the power to erase the darkest shadows, those that had settled over his mind like a blanket of fog. The wind, faithful companion of this rain dance, caressed Lan Xichen's skin with infinite delicacy, making every drop not just an element of nature, but a small touch of redemption. The rain wasn't just water: it was the promise of redemption, a smile from the sky that told him that, perhaps, his battle had never really been lost. 

Lan Xichen looked up at the sky, his bare feet were roots, anchored to the ground as if the earth itself was whispering to him that, despite everything, he belonged in this world. Every step he took was as if he were walking through the folds of time, a time in which his soul had been lost, but which he now seemed to rediscover with a freshness never known before. The earth beneath him was alive, pulsating, and every movement he made seemed to awaken the surrounding nature. The bamboo bent with every step he took, as if it recognized the weight it had now lifted from Lan Xichen's heart, as if nature itself was grateful to see him like this, free and light, finally outside that cocoon of pain that had imprisoned him for too long. 

The wind got stronger and stronger, but it didn't bring a storm, it brought relief. The bamboo trunks bent as he passed, creating a melody of rustling sounds that seemed to applaud his rebirth. Lan Xichen no longer held back. His body, which was usually imprisoned in control and composure, was now a raging river, letting itself be guided by the frenetic beating of his heart. No more distressing thoughts, no more fears, just the sensation of being in tune with the primordial energy of that rain which seemed to open the doors of a new life. Every movement, every breath, was an act of freedom, a flight without borders that separated him from the past, from the pain that had weighed on him like a mountain.

Rain, which once seemed to be a sign of sadness, had now become the purest of dances. The sky and the earth united in an embrace that enveloped him entirely. Lan Xichen was no longer a man, but a part of that dance, of the heartbeat of nature around him. Every step he took was an escape from his own torment, a race towards the lightness that he was finally finding. The rain soaked his skin, but there was no more pain. Each drop that landed on him was as if it took away a piece of his suffering, a physical liberation that corresponded to the emotional one he was experiencing deep down. In his heart, which until then had been a prisoner of invisible chains, there was now a breeze of freedom. His hands raised to the sky as if they wanted to grasp that rain, that life that finally belonged to him. The mind became light, it became empty, and Lan Xichen felt like a bird taking flight for the first time. The weight of the past, of the dreams that had tormented him, now dissolved in that water, in that sky, in that rain that wasn't just water: it was the revelation that the pain was only a fragment of the whole, and that now, finally, the truth was that he was free. 

Every step Lan Xichen took was like a stone that, when thrown into the water, created circles that expanded endlessly in the lake of his heart. Every breath he took was like a wind that swept away the dust from his thoughts, awakening the purity of a soul that had lain too long under the weight of its own chains. Every movement of his body, every fiber that stretched in the solitary dance of his loneliness, was an act of courage. The rain was the beat of a heart that, finally, recognized itself for what it was: alive, intact, still capable of feeling.

Lan Xichen wasn't just dancing in the rain. He was rebuilding his soul, layer by layer, like a craftsman who, with trembling but determined hands, puts the pieces of a broken vase back together, discovering the beauty of fragility that he had never had the courage to embrace. Every drop that fell on his skin was like a thread that stitched together invisible wounds, and every movement of his body reawakened a part of himself that he thought he had lost forever. The rain wasn't just water sliding on his skin: it was the promise of a new beginning, the caress that fate had denied him for years. The wind that ruffled his hair was like a mother caressing a child's face after a long pain, as if the air itself was cradling him and telling him, in silence, that he could finally stop. It was the breath of the universe joining his, whispering to him that the time had come to let go, to stop opposing his own truth. And the bamboo, which bent under the weight of that wind, was nature itself paying homage to it, recognizing its strength and its vulnerability at the same time. There was no shame in giving in to the wind, in bending before what was bigger than him, because now Lan Xichen understood that true strength was not in resisting, but in being flexible, in allowing life to enter without fear. 

When he smiled, it was as if a flower bloomed in the middle of winter, a sign of hope exploding suddenly and unexpectedly, despite all the dark seasons that had tormented him. Lan Xichen's smile was like light piercing the thickest clouds, the sweet knowledge that, finally, his soul was at peace. It was the smile of a child who awakens from a nightmare and finds reality brighter than any dream. The nightmare was over, and in front of him there was only the truth of himself, the one he had always ignored, but which now belonged to him completely. Lan Xichen was no longer the prisoner of his fears and regrets. He was a man who, through rain and wind, had found the courage to recognize himself, without masks, without excuses. The pain was no longer a chain that tied him to the past, but a distant memory that vanished in the sound of the rain, in his solitary dance under the sky that seemed to smile with him. Lan Xichen lay in the damp ground like a stone thrown into the river of memory, and his body sank into the earth, nature's cold and cruel embrace that did not ask for forgiveness. The rain fell on him like a blessing that had the flavor of remorse and hope, a washing of his invisible wounds, those inflicted by the pain that he had kept for too long. Every drop that hit his skin was a word he had never said, an unexpressed thought, a confession that silence had made heavier than chains. The earth beneath him, wet and hungry for life, welcomed him like a mother who has seen her children grow up and die, but who asks for nothing in return, except his company.

The mud that stuck to his clothes, his hair, was no longer an enemy, but a sign, a map of his inner journeys. There was no longer any shame in that disorderly condition, there was nothing left to hide. Lan Xichen felt naked, but not in the usual sense of the word: he finally felt visible, exposed to his own truth, a truth that time had tried to suffocate but which was now free to breathe, like a breath he had never dared to take.Xichen wake up.His body, fragile as a leaf about to fall, but at the same time solid as the rock that the forces of the world have failed to shatter, bent under the wind. Every movement, every oscillation of his body was a response to the wind that touched him, as if nature itself was caressing him, welcoming his presence. His soul, like a door that had been closed for too long, finally opened with a silent decision, revealing the pain and joy he had hidden behind the wall of his beliefs.  

The hands crossed on his chest, as if holding together the heart that would no longer be afraid to beat, were a symbol of a protection that was no longer made of walls or silences, but of a courage that flowed from his own vulnerability. He no longer had to hide, he no longer had to run from his own heart. Every single heartbeat seemed to scream a truth that he had tried to repress for too long. The rain that lapped him, light like the touch of a maternal caress, reminded him that nothing would ever be the same again. The past would dissolve like mist in the morning, his fears and regrets would evaporate into the crisp night air, leaving only the essence of what truly was. His smile, now that he saw it in the mirror of the soul, was a flame that burned silently, but illuminated everything around him. It was a light that seemed to come from deep within the darkness, like a fire burning in a cave, giving warmth to those who had walked too long in the cold. There was no more loneliness, there was no more fear: there was only the return to oneself, as if every step had been an invitation home, a hug that I had never received.

Lan Xichen had finally found peace. The rain and the wind were its silent sentinels, witnesses of a rebirth that needed no words. The betrayal, death, the dreams that had tormented his soul now dissolve, like dust that the wind disperses into nothingness. The person he loved was alive?, and his presence was no longer threatened by the darkness of the past. Now, Jin Guangyao was there, at his side, like a dream that no longer had to be feared, but only experienced.Xichen, he died by your hand... remember? It was only a bad dream, he thought. But the dream was now over. The nightmare had been broken, and in that quiet, in the silently falling rain, Lan Xichen felt he had finally found his freedom. Reality was no longer a prison, but a flowering garden, where every step brought him closer to a future that he had learned to welcome, without fear. wake up. But there was something strange, Lan Xichen thought, a shadow that passed over his perception like a breath held too long. Despite the incessant rain falling, he didn't feel wet. His skin, usually so sensitive to the touch of nature, did not react to the coolness of the rain which seemed to slide away from him as if it had been repelled by a surface that was too smooth, too distant. He stopped for a moment, his face turned to the sky, and tried to understand. His body seemed separated from the storm surrounding him, as if the rain didn't dare touch him.

It was as if the rain had ignored him, as if the water itself was afraid to touch him, afraid of wetting something that was already soaked in a deeper, older moisture, one that could never be washed away. He looked at his hands, as if searching for the answer between the folds of his skin. The earth beneath him was soaked with moisture, the bamboo surrounding him bent under the weight of the water, but he was like an island in a stormy sea, distant from everything around him.Hey, where do I leave the medlars? The wind, which had previously caressed him gently, now seemed to pass through him, as if it had never really touched him. It was a strange, surreal sensation, as if he himself no longer completely belonged to this world, as if he had become a ghost, a shadow walking in a world that no longer welcomed him. Yet his heart beat, loud and clear, and in that beat there was a sad awareness. Shhh, he is sleping... shut up!

At that moment, the air seemed to become denser, as if the world itself had stopped breathing. Every breath of wind, once light and comforting, turned into a distant murmur, like the lament of something about to die. The rain that fell softly on his face suddenly became a burden, like drops of lead that hit him every time, making him feel trapped in a nightmare with no way out. The ground beneath him seemed to vibrate with an energy he couldn't fathom, as if the earth itself were alive, and he were nothing more than a shadow wasting away upon its surface. It was at that moment that the cold passed through him. A cold that didn't come from outside, but from inside, as if his heart had been gripped by an invisible claw, which squeezed him tighter and tighter. With a jerk of anxiety, Lan Xichen turned, but his body did not respond as it should have, his muscles had become heavy, as if time itself had become a thin and elusive veil.

They were snakes.

Snakes that did not crawl on the earth, but emerged from it like dark coils of a nightmare he should never have lived. Slow and evil, they wrapped around him, starting from his ankles like chains of a prisoner who was not guilty, but who still had to pay a price. Their long, sharp bodies intertwined around his, tightening their grip more and more, like invisible jaws ready to crush him in a grip of desperation. The forked tongues of the snakes touched each other, dancing with his skin, leaving behind trails of venom that could not be seen, but which burned like a secret fire. Fear paralyzed him, freezing every thought. Every breath he tried to take felt like he was being sucked into a bottomless void. Panic rose inside him like a raging river, dragged him mercilessly, making every beat of his heart bounce against the walls of his chest, like beating drums of an assault. There was no escape.

The snakes weren't just binding him physically; they were slipping into his thoughts, his memories, his most intimate fears. Each hiss seemed to be a voice judging him, condemning him, telling him that he would never be free again. Slowly, as if he were a puppet without strings, his eyes turned towards the house. The hope, which he had long held close to his heart like a candle burning in a dark night, was extinguished by what he saw. There was no longer a safe house, a welcoming refuge. Now, that house that once meant love, security, family, was a fire. The flames blazed high, chewing up the wood and everything they had stood for. The heat that emanated from them was not comforting, but distant, as if the fire were only a manifestation of a doom that was inexorably approaching.

And there, in the midst of the fury of the fire, he stood.

Jin Guangyao.

His figure, solid and immobile, seemed made of dancing shadows and burning light. He did not come closer, he did not speak, but the smile he gave him was the cruelest of rays of sunshine, a smile that tasted of betrayal. That smile he had seen so many times, but now seemed like a seal of pain. Every corner of Jin Guangyao's face radiated a coldness that tore at his soul, like a knife slowly cutting the veins of a dried-up heart. The flames around them weren't just fire, but the manifestation of his failures, of his unresolved fears. Every crackle, every spark that rose into the dark sky seemed to dance in sync with his collapsing mind. Yet, Jin Guangyao remained there, more and more distant, more and more unattainable. A motionless specter that observed his torment, without ever coming closer. Xichen pleas, wake up! Every breath he tried to take turned into a screeching noise, like a body that could no longer move but was imprisoned in a steel cage. The mind was looking for an escape route, but it couldn't find it. His cries dissolve in the air like wind-swept sand, leaving no trace. And in that moment, Lan Xichen realized that there was no more dream. There was no more illusion. There was only the truth, naked and merciless, that was swallowing him up. A truth he could never deny. Betrayal, deception, lost and never reciprocated love. The awareness of a failure that would torment his soul for eternity. 

A flash of lightning had opened the sky like a screaming mouth, a never-healed wound in the very body of the universe, and Lan Xichen had been sucked into its gash. No longer a man, but a shred of soul trapped between fire and mud, between the coils of serpents and the cutting smile of a fallen god. Reality had melted like wax too close to the flame, and his mind had slipped away, flayed by the vision.

The ground beneath him was no longer earth, it was living, pulsating flesh, and the snakes - oh, those snakes - no longer crawled: they whispered. They sang to him the sins he had forgotten, they poured poisoned honey into his mouth, and Lan Xichen laughed. He laughed because he had believed in a fairy tale, because he had clung to the dream like a castaway hugs a mermaid... only to discover too late that he was drowning. Then a strong, concrete, human hold. And in the chaos, in the acrid burning smell and poisonous hiss, Lan Xichen saw. Two eyes. Not like flames, not like abyss, but like violet petals still closed in the morning. Familiar eyes, eyes that knew more about his soul than he wanted to admit. Eyes that seemed to be asking him not to give up, to stay. Do you remember me, Xichen? He closed his eyes for just a beat, a suspended breath... and he reopened them to find himself crushed by reality: the ceiling of his room. The beams. The wood. The flickering light from a lantern. And a face above him. Not the ethereal and ghostly one of Jin Guangyao, but the concrete, tangible, deadly alive one of Nie Mingjue. 

"Xichen!" he was shaking it with both hands, his brow furrowed and his voice low but full of urgency. “Xichen, answer me!”

Lan Xichen blinked, disconcerted, as if his soul had suddenly returned to his body. Sweat wet his forehead, his robe was half twisted, and his heart… his heart was pounding as if he had been running for hours in the rain. "What… what the hell…?" he whispered, his voice rough. “What the hell just happened?”

Her room was intact. No snakes. No fire. No Jin Guangyao. Just him and Nie Mingjue, in an eerie silence broken only by the ticking of the light rain hitting the windows. And then, like a punch in the gut. What did Nie Mingjue do in his room? Lan Xichen raised himself slightly on his elbows, his eyes widening with confusion bordering on panic.

"Mingjue... you—? Why are you here?" Nie Mingjue stared at him with an expression between serious and shocked, as if he was considering whether to shake him again or check his fever. "I heard you scream. Half of Gusu heard you scream. And when you didn't answer… I forced the window."Lan Xichen looked at him as if he were still in a dream. The window… force the window? Nie Mingjue in his room? The echoes of dream whispers still followed him, the snakes still slithered in his thoughts. But that hand… that voice… those purple eyes… had pulled him out. 

Chapter Text

"God only knows
We don't need ghost stories"

Lan Xichen and Nie Mingjue were now sitting opposite each other, like two exhausted generals after a long battle that neither had really wanted to fight, each sitting at their own end of the low table, like distant islands in the same ocean of silence. Lan Xichen's every movement, every little flick of his wrist as he poured the tea, seemed suspended in time, as if the world itself was holding its breath waiting for something that might not yet come. The golden liquid slid slowly into the cup, the surface rippling with the slight tremors of his fingers. The tea was hot, but in Lan Xichen's hands it felt frozen, as if the heat couldn't truly enter his body, trapped in an invisible shell of ice that was slowly forming around him. Each drop that fell into the cup felt heavy, as if it carried with it the weight of all the unsaid, all the unexpressed thoughts that floated in the air between them. The scent of the drink was enveloping, but in that moment it only seemed like a distant call, an echo of a world that no longer existed, a world where the words between them were not so full of pain, of unspoken truths.

On the other side of the table, Nie Mingjue stood still, as if the world had stopped spinning for him. His hand, which was holding his face, trembled slightly, as if he couldn't find the right point of contact with his flesh. The elbow resting on the table felt like a dead weight, as if the arm were the support of a mountain that was crushing it from the inside. His lips, tightly closed, were like cracks from which not even thoughts came out. The silence surrounding them wasn't empty. No, it wasn't the empty... It was heavy, thick, like a fog that envelops you and suffocates you so you can't breathe.

Lan Xichen bit his lip, a gesture as instinctive and light as a leaf skimming the water before sinking. His hands continued to pour the tea with a blank automatism, while his mind wandered like a bird trapped against the glass of embarrassment. Every drop that fell into the bowl was an extra beat in his heart. The mind, like a river in flood, pushed towards the banks, but found no calm. The room almost seemed to suck him in, enveloping him in an invisible corner where every breath became heavy as if the light itself, which slowly grew beyond the window, had begun to squeeze him. The world outside seemed distant and intangible, but inside him, the silence of that house was becoming deafening.  He finally looked up, but his vision seemed blurry, as if the world around him had been engulfed by a darkness he couldn't chase away. Nie Mingjue's eyes, hard yet fragile like crystal, seemed to be looking for something that wasn't there. No words came from his lips, but the thoughts that swirled in his head didn't need words to be perceived. It was there, you could feel it in the heavy air, in the suspended breaths, in the accelerated beating of hearts that aligned without wanting it, without wanting that communion that united them in that moment.

Meanwhile, the morning was rising behind Nie Mingjue. The rays of the sun, still pale and inexperienced, spread across the room like timid fingers trying to reassure, to dispel the shadows of the night that had just passed. The morning light, which filtered through the cracks in the window, illuminated the scene in a surreal way, almost as if time itself was suspended, held back by the weight of an unspoken secret. The shadows were long, distorted, and danced slowly across the floor like invisible presences. But Lan Xichen's face, pale as the reflection of a dead moon, became more vivid precisely in that silence, like a canvas that only took shape when the pen was no longer able to trace anything meaningful.

The night robe, light as a forgotten cloud on the earth, was no protection against that flame that warmed his stomach. A new, unknown warmth, more awkward than reassuring. Like a boy stumbling on the threshold of his first home, this is how Lan Xichen felt: out of place, confused, vulnerable. Heat, heat that shouldn't be there, rose from his chest to flood his cheeks and neck. The light fabric of the night tunic, now stuck to his body with cold sweat, became a weight that chained him even more to that surreal scene. But the awareness of the heat burning his face only accentuated the contrast with the cold that paralyzed him. That chill that came from the distance of Nie Mingjue, a man who didn't need to speak, but who made himself felt like a raging river, flowing inside his mind.

He had thought – foolishly – that isolation would protect him from scenes like this. From feelings, from situations that escaped the precise rules he had imposed on himself. Yet there he was, standing in front of Nie Mingjue, as his heart beat a sprawling drum against his ribs and the silence between them weighed like a wet blanket.

Nie Mingjue, in that apparent calm, moved with an almost enigmatic slowness. He simply stood there, with his elbow leaning on the table and his hand holding his face, observing him with those eyes that seemed chiseled in the rock. He didn’t accuse. He didn’t laugh. It did nothing to alleviate the embarrassment which, instead, seemed to echo in the room like the flapping of a lost crow's wings. Lan Xichen swallowed dryly, feeling the humiliation press against his throat like a rose full of thorns. It was he who had collapsed. He was the one who had screamed so loudly that he had woken Nie Mingjue from a distance. And now he also had to face the fact that his friend – no, his anchor – had forced a window to get in to him.  Not that Nie Mingjue had never entered his house before. But this time... this time was different. There were no invitations, there were no courtesy rituals, there were no teas poured before entry. Just a window thrown open by force, a rush in the middle of the night, a scream that had torn the silence like an open wound. Lan Xichen lowered his eyes to the cup he was filling, only then realizing that the tea was overflowing, like the thoughts he could no longer contain. 

The silence had become oppressive, like a wave breaking against a rock, without making any noise, but its presence was tangible, undeniable. Lan Xichen's every breath seemed like the echo of a thought that was reflected in his own heart, bouncing against the walls of his mind without ever finding peace. The morning light, slowly invading the room, seemed to detach itself from everything he knew and envelop him in a warm golden light, like a trap closing on him.

But that void was not empty. It was full. Full of his frustration, of the fear of losing everything he had built, of the knowledge that every word he would say could destroy the fragile balance he had managed to maintain for so long. 

The morning light still came in, but it was no longer warm, no longer welcoming. Every ray that entered the window seemed to cut the room like blades of light, outlining the shadows of two men facing each other in a way they hadn't chosen. Lan Xichen felt the pressure of those rays like a weight on his shoulders, as his mind spun in circles, unable to find the right direction. That day he told himself that isolation would be his shield. That all he had to do was close enough doors, blow out enough candles, break enough bonds... and the pain would stop outside, unable to reach him. But now, in that room where the silence smelled heavy of tea and broken dreams, Lan Xichen understood. 

Isolation hadn't pushed the world away, no. He had only closed the doors with the hope that everything would stay out there. And Lan Xichen had convinced himself that by keeping everything beyond those invisible walls, the weight he carried in his heart would disappear, dissolve like fog in the morning. He had told himself that the ghosts, those blurry memories, those broken voices, would never be able to cross that threshold again. Every day, every minute that passed without anything changing, he felt the prison tightening around him a little more. It was as if time, which was also in prison, had stopped flowing, leaving him suspended in an endless limbo. He no longer counted the days, the hours, the minutes. He couldn't distinguish dawn from dusk, and not even his reflection in the glass had a face anymore.

The poems had become his only anchor, his only escape, but it was not an escape to free breathing. He wrote in black and white, like a man who tried to imprison his soul in a memory, but what tried to escape from his flesh always returned to that paper. Every word he wrote, every verse he hid on the paper, spoke to him as if it were an echo bouncing against his own chest, repeating the same questions. Those questions that had no answers. There was a paradox in everything he did: he thought writing would set him free, but every word only trapped him deeper. The ghosts hadn't gone away, not completely, they had found their way to sit by his side, to speak to him softly in the middle of the night. 

Every emotion he had avoided, every regret he had buried alive under layers of discipline and silence, now walked through that house as silent guests, invisible but present, breathing his own breath. They had no face or name, but their weight was felt in every corner, like dust that no hand would ever be able to sweep away. He had tried to forget. To believe that it was enough to blow out a candle to make even the darkness disappear. He had tried to tell himself that solitude was a sanctuary, that isolation was a noble retreat and not a sentence. He had really tried - with the same blind tenacity with which you try to hold water between your fingers - but how can you move on, how can you build something new, when you close the door of your heart by walling in all the pain, like a prisoner who, in an attempt to protect himself, chains himself? 

The rules of his clan, which he had once memorized, now made his hand shake. The awareness that he could no longer accept them as absolute truths, that perhaps the world he had honored so much was not what he believed, shattered him piece by piece. The wall in front of him, which he now knew with painful precision, was no mere wall. It was a picture of himself, of what he had become. And as he looked at it, he desperately tried to find another way, an answer, a solution that didn't exist. But every time he tried to lift himself up, the earth beneath him became softer and softer, as if he were trying to walk on quick sand, but never quite managing to gain footing.

In those moments, when he looked at himself and couldn't see himself, when he wrote and his thoughts never went beyond the blank sheet of paper, he realized an irrefutable truth. 

He had walled his ghosts inside, and those ghosts became his only companions. He felt them next to him, always, but he couldn't feel them as part of himself. He had transformed them into voices that never responded, into presences that never touched him. He hadn't exorcised them, as he thought. He had simply let them grow inside him, feeding them with every unspoken word, with every unaddressed fear. 

And so, in that silence that was never complete, which was made up of a thousand suspended sentences, a thousand unanswered questions, Lan Xichen felt like a stranger to himself. But that knowledge didn't free him. It imprisoned him even more. Because, at this point, he didn't know who he really was anymore. The man who had locked himself in that room, surrounded by his ghosts, was no longer the man who had had dreams, who had had hopes, who had had direction. Now he was just a figure lost in a foggy landscape, trapped between memory and regret. Lan Xichen found himself clutching the fabric of his robe at his knees with a force that turned his knuckles white. The silk slid between his fingers like water, unable to protect him. Because what could a fabric ever do against the weight of everything it had kept silent?

Nie Mingjue's face in front of him was a silent wall. He did not look at him with judgment. Not with pity. Not with anger. It was just there. Solid like a mountain, immobile like the truth that could no longer be ignored. Lan Xichen wanted to speak, but he was afraid that even if he opened his mouth, the ghosts would come out like flocks of crows, blackening the air. He wanted to hold on to something, anything, but his hands only dug into the fabric. 

His isolation had made him believe that it was enough to shut the world out but he had locked himself in alone, with no way out. And now... now the door had opened. Not gently. But with the brutal strength of those who love enough to break through walls. Nie Mingjue was there. Not to judge him. Not to scold him. But to remind him that even though the world was a field of ruins, there was still something alive to save. Lan Xichen bowed his head as a tear, silent as a confession, rolled down his cheek. It was a single drop, as small as a seed and like every seed, it carried within itself the possibility of rebirth. 

While Lan Xichen slowly returned to reality, with a distracted gesture, but at the same time definitely full of that inner frenzy that only desperation can trigger, he wiped his cheek, as if he could erase everything that had passed with a simple movement. Lan Xichen's eyes lifted, finding Nie Mingjue's. A moment suspended between them, made of unsaid words and unrevealed truths. The ceramic of the cup he handed him trembled slightly between her fingers, but then he glanced at Nie Mingjue, as if trying to read something he couldn't decipher, an answer hidden behind the calm and solid expression of her interlocutor. Nie Mingjue looked at the cup, his gaze shifty, as his long finger traced a nervous circle along the edge of the ceramic. Lan Xichen felt that gesture as an attempt at distraction, a way of masking the disorder that hid behind that surface of apparent calm. Then, finally, Nie Mingjue's voice cut through the silence. "So... how are things?"  

It was a clumsy question, thrown there like a stone in a pond, but Lan Xichen, in the delicacy of his sensitivity, understood. It was a hand reaching out in the darkness, a clumsy approach to get to him. Lan Xichen felt himself tighten inside, as if his own heart had hesitated a beat, he knew well what that implied. The rules of the clan, carved like stone inside him, prohibited any contact with the outside world during isolation: no help, no words, no comfort. Only silence and loneliness. Even now, he heard that cold voice in his mind whispering "If you speak, you will betray your path." And yet... Yet he also knew that if he opened his mouth to really tell what was stirring inside him, he wouldn't be able to stop the flow of words. The emotions he had walled up would have eroded his banks and would have exploded like a raging river, devastating every fictitious balance he had managed to build.

So, he looked down slightly, feeling the weight of his own hesitation, and only said, "Pretty good... how are things outside?". His voice was soft, almost too soft, like a feather trying to cover a crack. His gaze dropped to the cup of tea, as if the act of sipping was some kind of shield protecting him from the truth he was about to face. He couldn't open up completely, not yet, but there was something unexpected in that question, a tacit invitation to learn about things even outside the walls he had erected around himself. Then, without waiting for a response, he downed the tea with a gesture that was too quick, like someone trying to wash away with a sip the bitterness they don't want to admit they have on their tongue. The taste was bitter, more bitter than he remembered as if even the tea had absorbed the silence of his house.  

Nie Mingjue sighed, a heavy breath that seemed to ripple the air between them, as if his very breath was dusting away the gravity of that moment. He lifted the cup, brought it to his lips with a studied slowness, as if the tea had suddenly become thicker, more difficult to drink. Then, after a sip, he replaced it with a muffled sound on the wood of the table.

His gaze lowered, sliding along the grain of the wood, following the irregular patterns as if trying to read them as an escape route. When he spoke, his voice had the patient tone of someone who knows he's about to tell something that could shatter any semblance of seriousness. “Do you want to know the good part or the bad part?”. Lan Xichen, who until then had been holding his breath without realizing it, also put down the cup with extreme delicacy, almost fearing that too sudden a noise could break the fragile silence that surrounded them. The eyes, filled with an almost childish confusion, narrowed in a naive question "What?". Nie Mingjue hinted at a smile, one of those that barely open on the lips but which can be perceived above all in the look, while maintaining a serious expression like an officer on a parade day. "Well," he said, clasping his hands over the table like a teacher about to announce the most important lesson of the day, "since you're undecided, let's start with the positive news, shall we?"

Lan Xichen unconsciously leaned forward slightly, his neck reaching out like a flower bowing towards the light of a new day, curious and unaware. Nie Mingjue placed both elbows on the table, pinning it to the ground like sturdy pillars, and began in a tone that mixed sarcasm with pure amusement. “You must know that by now your house has become something of a local legend. Like the Forbidden Palace, but without all the glamor. Wei Wuxian and I—don't laugh—bet a year's supply of The Emperor's Smile on which of us could be the first to get in here uninvited or with.”

Lan Xichen blinked, completely unable to decide whether to be scandalized or amused. "Ah, and it's not over," Nie Mingjue continued with a twinkle in his eyes. "It seems that Lan Jingyi and Ouyang Zizhen have organized a betting ring... every time you look out the window, they gamble a quarter of their possessions. In coins or in nuts, I don't understand - maybe it depends on how desperate they are." The silence that followed was broken only by the rustling of Lan Xichen's robes as he recoiled slightly, as if the weight of the absurdity of it all had physically hit him. He had been locked away so long that he had transformed not into a respectable hermit... but into a drinking-house legend.

Lan Xichen had instinctively retreated, as if the chair he was sitting in had suddenly become incandescent. His hands, tense and rigid, rested on the table as if only the wood could prevent his body from dissolving into the air. To say he was upset would have been an insult to the gravity of the situation, it's like saying a swollen river is "a little wet". He opened his mouth, an involuntary movement, like a freshly caught fish desperately trying to catch air, but before he could utter even a sound of protest, Nie Mingjue - with a speed worthy of a predator that does not want to let its prey escape - continued without mercy.

"Then your brother... oh no, don't think of a romantic elopement or a hunting trip under the stars. He picks Wei Wuxian up on his shoulder - literally - and takes him away from home not for another honeymoon... but because the elders complained about 'disturbing noises' coming from their house!" Lan Xichen, meanwhile, had stiffened like a statue sculpted by shame itself. His mind desperately searched for a logical loophole, a dignified grip... but it was like trying to collect water with his bare hands: every thought slipped away from his fingers. Nie Mingjue paused so dramatically it felt like the interval between thunder and lightning. Lan Xichen literally felt his heart skip a beat, then another, as his face went as pale as a freshly unrolled scroll. And in that space of pure terror, where everything seemed about to explode, Nie Mingjue - with a theatrical sigh that would have been worthy of Nie Huaisang at the height of one of his melodramatic performances - added, inflicting the final stab. "Ah... and your uncle." Lan Xichen flinched as if someone had uttered an anathema. 

"First: he's worse than a mad bee circling a hive. I often see him hanging around here... It's not for the pleasure of taking a walk, I assure you. He's trying desperately to stop me from breaking down your door." Nie Mingjue's smile grew wider, almost complicit. “And second…” — here Nie Mingjue's voice dropped to a whisper full of poisonous irony — “I'm pretty sure he hates your clan elders to their guts, too.” He shook his head, the mass of his gathered hair twitching slightly. "I say... it's normal to hear that kind of noise coming from a married couple's house! It's not like Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian are playing chess at night, right? Yet those old people seem to have forgotten that they too were once young and noisy..." 

The silence that fell after these words was thick as molasses. Lan Xichen, motionless, seemed to have melted into the table, his eyes wide open like two full moons, and his hands still planted on the wood like roots. If he could, he would have turned into bamboo right now so that he would never have to face the world again. Lan Xichen blinked slowly, a gesture so slow it seemed like it belonged to a creature suddenly awakened from a long winter. He stared at Nie Mingjue as you would a knight who has just told you, with a smile on his lips, that the castle is burning... and that he also brought the gasoline. Too much information, too many images. Too much shame condensed all together like a bolt of lightning that had just struck his heart.

And, what's worse, from Nie Mingjue's look - that look folded into a half-laughter stifled under his moustache - he understood that it wasn't even over there. The catastrophe had barely warmed up the engines. It was then that, with the caution of someone about to ask a mad alchemist what the secret ingredient is in his latest explosive potion, Lan Xichen, almost fearfully, asked "What's the bad news?". 

Nie Mingjue straightened up, taking on an expression so serious that it looked like he was about to announce the end of the world. And perhaps, for Lan Xichen, it really was like that. In a serious voice, he declared, "Your uncle has taken over the official correspondence with the other sects. Especially with Yunmeng." Lan Xichen swallowed dryly, feeling terror rise from his stomach like a black wave. He looked at him, almost pleading with his eyes not to stop halfway, not to leave him in that horrible limbo. Nie Mingjue didn't need to be asked twice, and with the blissful look of someone telling a joke of the century, he added, "Just imagine... Lan Qiren and Jiang Cheng writing official letters to each other. Come on.... Those two are made for each other, I think there will be news of a wedding very soon." 

Lan Xichen literally had the urge to sink into the floor, like a flower under a heavy foot. He felt his ears burning with shame and embarrassment, as if his own blood was trying to ignite itself. Out of pure instinct, without thinking, he exclaimed, "Don't talk about Jiang Cheng like that!" As soon as the words escaped his mouth, he realized the absurdity and covered his mouth with both hands, as if he could physically catch the sound and push it back. Nie Mingjue, faced with that priceless sight, laughed. A full, authentic laugh, which even made the cup of tea left on the table tremble. With a smirk as pleased as it was mischievous, he commented: "Oh, was it enough to make you forget Jin Guangyao? If I had known before, I would have dragged Sandu Shengshou here by force!" And then he burst out laughing without restraint, leaning forward as if the mere weight of a feather was too much to bear. Lan Xichen, meanwhile, seriously thought he could retreat to the woods and live out the rest of his days as a hermit, far from any form of human communication.

Lan Xichen's eyes widened, still with his hands over his mouth, while Nie Mingjue was laughing so hard he had to catch the table with his fingers to keep from tumbling to the side. It was like witnessing a personal earthquake: every rule, every decorum, every dignity that Lan Xichen had carefully stacked over the years were collapsing on top of each other like pieces of a cursed domino. Finally, with the grace of someone who knows he is doomed, Lan Xichen lowered his hands and snorted softly, looking to the side. "You're... unbearable," he murmured, trying desperately to sound stern. Failing miserably. Nie Mingjue glanced at him slyly, raising an eyebrow. "I take that as a compliment," he said, and pounded his chest with a clenched fist like a warrior proud of his brightest medal. 

Lan Xichen found himself laughing. A laugh that rose strangled from his throat, like water finally finding a crack in the dam, and trembled on his lips, as surprised as it was liberating. He laughed. And the more he laughed, the more he realized that the idea of Jiang Cheng and Lan Qiren exchanging official letters like two shy sweethearts was so ridiculous that perhaps, if he had had a brush in his hand, he could have painted it. "I can't believe..." he let out through laughter. "I can't believe you bet a supply of alcohol with Wei Wuxian on who... would come into my house?!"

Nie Mingjue, who had meanwhile leaned back like a king after conquering a ridiculous kingdom, raised his hands in surrender. "You can't blame me! You have to understand: when you lock yourself inside your house for so long, you become a natural event. Like an eclipse. Like an earthquake. Like... I don't know, a horse in full bloom!" He couldn't remember the last time he laughed like that, and his ribs literally ached from laughing. "A horse..." he repeated between sobs of laughter. “Am I a horse in solitary confinement?” Nie Mingjue winked at him, without the slightest sense of shame. "A very elegant horse, who pours tea with a grace worthy of a poem, while outside the world burns... and bets on his yawns."

Lan Xichen shook his head, laughter still shaking his shoulders. Finally, when they were both exhausted from laughter and silence fell between them again—but a lighter, less tragic silence—Nie Mingjue sighed and added, more softly, "You see... you don't always have to be perfect, Xichen." Lan Xichen, still with a smile on his face, allowed himself to believe it, if only for that morning. 

Nie Mingjue looked at Lan Xichen still with tears in his eyes and a smile so bright it could light up a moonless night and said, "A-Huan." Lan Xichen felt his heart beat in an irregular beat, as if a distant echo had reached his mind, awakening memories he thought he had buried under mountains of duties. A-Huan. That word—that name—was like a melody that came to him from another life, a whisper from the past that touched his soul. His eyes lowered for a moment, as if trying to hold back that feeling that had suddenly appeared, without warning. He didn't say anything, but a small smile made its way onto his face, a delicate, almost shy smile, like a ray of light shining through the clouds of a storm. He was no longer the young man who laughed easily, but that smile spoke of a time when laughter was lighter, like flowers that bloomed fearlessly.

Nie Mingjue watched him, the sparkle in his eyes that was never extinguished, a light that defied all darkness. His smile, so bright, could have truly lit up a moonless night, that laugh that made the air vibrate, almost tangible, like a musical note resonating throughout the universe. Then, in that tone of feigned seriousness that made even the hardest stone smile, he said,"A-Huan," he repeated, with a smile that seemed to never end."If you want, next time I see Wei Wuxian... I'll even bet on how long it will take you to escape your own home. I say fifteen minutes. Wei Wuxian would say ten. Lan Wangji would probably just respond with a 'hmm'."

Lan Xichen blinked in disbelief, then burst out laughing, covering his mouth with his sleeve like a kid caught making a mess. "Fifteen minutes?" he managed to say between laughs, his voice still hoarse from crying earlier, but finally also light. "You're underestimating me," he added, raising an eyebrow in a perfect parody of his usual poise.

Nie Mingjue laughed even harder, shaking his head. "Ah, no. I'm trying to be optimistic," he said, pounding his closed fist against his chest. "If we were to ask Lan Qiren, he would bet on five minutes flat and even claim to time it!" Lan Xichen laughed, without covering himself this time. He laughed with his whole body, he laughed as if he were shaking away layers and layers of dust accumulated inside his chest. When they had calmed down a little, they remained sitting there, the cups of tea now cold on the table, the sun slowly filtering through the window and an almost unreal peace in the room. Lan Xichen inhaled slowly, feeling for the first time in a long time that his heart was not a sealed vessel, but an open window.

"Thank you," he finally murmured, in a low voice, with such disarming sincerity that even Nie Mingjue stopped laughing for a moment and simply nodded seriously. "You don't have to thank me, A-Huan," he replied softly. "Friends... do this too." Then, with a grimace that seemed to say "let's not take ourselves too seriously or I'll become sentimental", Nie Mingjue stood up suddenly, stretching. "Now," he said, clapping his hands together as if to shake off the dust, "I'm going to tell Wei Wuxian that you haven't escaped yet. But you tell your brother that he has to pay for Wei and me for dinner. Because today I came in... without even forcing the door!"  

Lan Xichen laughed again, this time leaning forward across the table. "You're incorrigible," he said between laughs. Nie Mingjue turned towards the door, raising a hand above his head in greeting. "I know!" he shouted already from almost outside. "That's why you love me!"

The door closed with a happy thud, leaving Lan Xichen alone in the silent room... but this time, strangely, he didn't feel alone at all.

Chapter Text

"They punished me for my sins"

Lan Xichen was left alone in the hall, still sitting, while the empty tea cup rested on the low table like a shell after the storm. In front of him, the open window let in the morning air, light and fresh, which touched his cheeks like shy fingers. He was alone, yet it didn't seem like it. Solitude was no longer an absence: it had become matter, presence, almost a silent companion who sat next to him without asking permission.

Lan Xichen was still there, in that room that smelled of wood and time, immersed in an unreal quiet that had the flavor of something that breaks only when you mention it. The empty tea cup, forgotten on the table, looked like a wreck after a night storm: there was no longer any heat inside it, but it carried the trace of what had been - a moment of relief, a laugh, an admission that perhaps all was not lost. The external landscape stretched out like a haiku painted by nature. The clouds, white as sheets not yet written, passed slowly, letting the sun filter them like uncertain words between the lines. The rays hit the dark wooden windowsill with the delicacy of a kiss given in a dream: they revealed the grain, every imperfection, every scratch... but instead of diminishing it, that light made it more true, almost precious. His gaze had not left the window. The landscape was clear, untouched, and reminded him of a painting no one had ever finished. 

Lan Xichen remained there, with one leg bent and his elbow on the table, his face resting on a strangely cold palm, in contrast with the warm skin of his cheeks that still held the memory of laughter. He had tilted his head, and his hair had followed him in that gesture like curious companions in thought. He looked outside with the same expression with which a poet stares at the sky in search of verses: enchanted, but also empty. A scratch invisible on normal days, today it shone like a word that only those who have suffered can pronounce. Lan Xichen had tilted his head, his chin resting on his palm, his eyes open but elsewhere. The fresh air caressed his face and his hair danced slightly, as if trying to follow him even in his thoughts. He didn't know what he was thinking about. Maybe about the time he had wasted. Maybe the time he had found again, for a moment, that morning with Nie Mingjue.

A joke was enough, a stolen smile, and his ribs had remembered how the body bends when you really laugh. A full laugh, the kind you don't expect to have anymore. He'd forgotten how liberating it was to laugh without looking over your shoulder, without having to correct your expression immediately afterwards. Maybe he was still chasing the echo of laughter with Nie Mingjue, that sound that seemed to have shaken the dust from the corners of his heart. They weren’t just laughter. It was cracks. Fissures in the ice. A ray of sunlight in the middle of the coldest winter. Lan Xichen didn't know exactly when it had happened, but at some point that morning he had forgotten to defend himself. He had laughed, for real. Not a kind and composed laugh, not a smile of courtesy or a gesture to please someone. No. He laughed until he felt his bones vibrate under his skin. He laughed with his diaphragm, with his lungs, with shining eyes. He had laughed against the pain. And the pain couldn't help but retreat.

It was as if a window had opened within him that he no longer knew he had. A moment stolen in the shadow. A sudden joy, like a fruit plucked from the tree in a moment of ancient hunger. He had bitten that fruit without thinking, and only then had he tasted it. And what a taste...Sweet like a memory that doesn't hurt, harsh like a truth you can't ignore.

He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he savored that moment. He had spent days, weeks, perhaps months, convincing himself that little was enough to survive. A little silence. A measured routine. The poems transcribed with care. The repeated gestures that kept him standing. He had believed that was enough. That it was dignified. That it was right. But a laugh was enough. A sincere look, a discordant joke, the sound of two cups touching each other was enough for everything he had patiently built around his pain to crack. Like thin glass under the sun's heat. The hunger was there. Dull. Deep like a void dug in the chest with the fingers. Hunger for presence. Hunger for voice. Hungry for someone who saw him and not just the role, the mask, the legacy. He had spent so much time silencing himself that he had come to truly believe he had nothing left to say. That he was nothing anymore.

For a moment, Lan Xichen felt different. Not quite free, not quite healed, but… present. That moment with Nie Mingjue was brief, but it left a clear mark. He laughed, really laughed, with shaking shoulders and shortness of breath. He felt the heat in his chest, the tingling in his eyes, the voice that came out without filters. A part of him — the part he thought he had lost forever — had awakened. For a moment, the pain was a distant thing. And not out of distraction - not one of those temporary escapes where you stop thinking to survive - but because something had truly returned. An instant stolen from the shadow, from the fog that had enveloped his mind for too long. A sudden and warm light that had slipped under the skin, without asking permission. An unexpected joy, almost guilty, like a fruit plucked from the tree in a moment of hunger. 

He had bitten into that fruit. He laughed, he tilted his head back until he felt his ribs move as if he were alive, really alive. He heard Nie Mingjue's voice pass through him like an echo that reawakened dormant memories. And only after - only after - having swallowed that morsel, he realized how hungry he was. Not for food. Not for words. But of something that had no name. Maybe for life. Maybe for himself. Maybe for something that belonged to a time he could not remember, a distant echo of a joy he no longer knew. Maybe it was as if, for the first time after a long season of silence, he could finally breathe differently. As if, in a winter that seemed to never end, a small crack had opened in his heart, enough to let the light in.

The laughter he heard resounding in his chest was not torn from the throat, as he might have imagined, but sweet and light, like that of a nightingale returning home after a long flight, its wings sore from the wind. Every beat, every beat of his wings became less heavy. Maybe, he thought, maybe this is the part I'd forgotten. The one I had never allowed myself to experience. The part that, deep down, I didn't think I deserved. But today... today, for the first time in years, a part of his heart didn't feel the need to blame himself. There was no pain in doing something for himself, just a feeling of calm that washed over him, like the warmth of a ray of sunshine piercing a gray sky. 

There is something almost imperceptible in what he was feeling, like the beating of a heart that he had forgotten how to beat, or perhaps he had just stopped listening for fear that the sound would be too loud. Not of food, not of words – but of a space that opened inside him like a flower that blooms in the morning, but that had never been allowed to bloom. It was as if time itself had stolen a piece of itself from him, a fragment of light that now seemed to be recovering, but with the bitter taste of a loss that he had never really recognized. That sense of uncertainty, of emptiness that he had tried to fill with the weight of his responsibilities, was slowly giving way to something he didn't know what to call. Maybe life. Maybe freedom. But it almost seemed as if those words escaped him, too full of expectations and memories to be truly liberating.

The laughter he had heard, strange, out of place, was not that of someone who is making fun of himself, but that of someone who, after having spent years blaming himself for every mistake, had finally allowed himself not to be perfect. A laugh that was born as a faint sound, like a seed that manages to germinate despite the arid soil. It was not the laughter of those who know that another day will come tomorrow, but that of those who, finally, are ready to face the future without fear.

It was as though another winter was melting away, but without the snow melting. There was no heat that erased everything, just a crack, small and invisible, that let the light in. A light that did not warm, but illuminated, making him see clearly for the first time: that part of himself that he had closed off, that he had hidden among the shadows of his darkest thoughts. Yet, in that light, there was a heat that was not that of a flame, but of a simple crack that allowed the world to enter. Without urgency, without pretence. An acceptance of himself that he never thought he could do. In his heart, no excuses. Not anymore. No need to justify himself or explain to those who looked at him how he got there. Because in that moment, for the first time, there was nothing to apologize for. There was nothing broken to fix, nothing to fix. As if the beauty of that moment, the sweetness of that laughter, didn't need to find a justification. As if, finally, his soul had found its place, in silence and calm, without the incessant noise of his past faults.

And, in that feeling of quiet, there was something that had no name, but that smelled like home. Of that house he had never really seen before, but was now slowly building. A corner of himself that no one could touch, that no outside force could ever invade. That space that was only his. 

Nie Mingjue had entered his house as one enters a forgotten dream. It had brought chaos, irony, noise, and everything Lan Xichen had avoided. But beneath every joke, every poorly held smile, every absurd anecdote... there was a message. “You are not alone.” And this, for Lan Xichen, was almost scarier than actually being so. Because if he wasn't alone, then he had to admit that he still loved someone. He had to admit that he was still made of love. And love, he knew, was a blade that can never be completely disarmed. 

It was like finding yourself walking along an invisible shore, where every step oscillated between the restlessness of solitude and the subtle call of a company that was no longer there, yet had never left. Every thought, every breath, pushed him into a corner of himself where he didn't want to go, but where he found himself ending up anyway, as if he had never had control over what inhabited him. Like a memory that had no intention of being forgotten, that crept into its darkest corners, a prisoner of a nostalgia that he would never be able to completely bury. It wasn't the loneliness that was scary, but the awareness that every void was inhabited by what he had tried to eliminate. It was like a thread that doesn't break, even when you pull it hard: it stretches, twists, but never gives way. The love, which he thought he had torn away, had done nothing but hide, hide himself waiting for the moment when it would re-emerge with the same strength, ready to tear apart again what he thought he had silenced.

And it was a subtle pain, not the kind that wrenches you and doubles you over, but a continuous, imperceptible thrust. A blade that never breaks completely, but remains sharp, ready to scratch the moment you forget about it. It was the remorse that never stops creeping along your skin, like a wound that never heals, that reminds you that perhaps there is a part of you that can never be healed, because that part is made up of everything you have loved, everything you have lost, and everything that, despite every effort, you will never be able to forget.

And the problem wasn't just the fact that the heart was still carrying that wound. The real problem was that every time he thought he could put it aside, love resurrected like a plant growing between the cracks in the concrete, unshakable, almost mocking, capable of reminding you that any attempt to escape was destined to fail. Like a tree that, despite your desire to cut it down, has roots that sink too deep to be scratched. The bond had never been broken: it had just changed, transformed into something more difficult to deal with, more intolerable in its invisible presence. And now, as he once again walked the line between the present and the past, the truth became clearer and clearer: he would never be able to part with the one he loved. Even if that bond destroyed him, even if it threatened to make him lose everything he had tried to build, love continued to pull him back, like a wave that never stops returning to the shore. 

And he didn't know whether to feel relieved or terrified, like a tree that sees the storm approaching, but he also knows that the hurricane could finally tear away the dry branches that hang from it. He didn't know if the feeling that filled his chest was a sigh of relief or the end of something that, deep down, he had never really understood how dear he was. Every thought shattered like glass under the weight of a decision he hadn't yet made. It was like being halfway through a leap without knowing whether the ground below would be ready to welcome him, or whether he would be swallowed up by the void.

It was like that crack in the wall finally letting the light through, but without knowing what it would reveal beyond it. The light that entered was not warm, but cold, yet there was a disturbing beauty in it, like the dawn that reveals the contours of things, but without the promise of a bright day. He wondered if he could live with that truth, with that gash in his heart that forced him to look at himself for who he was, without masks, without any more refuges. The only certain thing was that he couldn't go back. Yet, there was something bitter in that awareness, as if the price to pay was too high for a truth that, for a long time, he had tried to ignore.

His mind swayed like a boat adrift in a calm and suddenly dark sea. He was suspended in a limbo where every choice seemed to lead towards an unknown abyss, but also towards a freedom that, somehow, terrified him. All his life he had looked for certainties, he had tried to grasp what couldn't slip through his fingers, and now he found himself facing a world without shores, without points of reference. The chaos he feared was not a whirlwind, but the eerie calm that precedes every storm. Yet, in that quiet, there was a freedom that scared him. Like an open door onto a world he had never explored, but which now, inevitably, he had to cross. It was the freedom to choose to live, with no more excuses, no more alibis, but also the fear of finding out what he would have to face to do so. As if, finally, he had hit rock bottom, but bottom was a place where he didn't know if he could stand or if he would be swallowed up by everything he had tried to bury. The question that tormented him now was not whether he could rise, but whether he would have the strength to do so, whether he could sustain the light that had awakened him from his long darkness.

It was like a bird that had gotten used to the cage, but now felt the air outside, felt freedom. Yet, that freedom did not reassure him. He felt the call of the vastness, but also the burden of being alone in that infinite sky. His heart, like a drawn bow, was ready to shoot an arrow that he didn't know where it would end up. But even the idea of not pulling it at all, of staying still, seemed to be the end of everything. A paradox he didn't know how to resolve, a truth too big to be embraced, too heavy to be ignored. 

The sound of the peeping, so insistent and elusive, penetrated his silence like a thorn in his side. Every vibration of that sound seemed to reawaken a part of himself that he had tried to suffocate, but which would never submit to silence. It wasn't a sound like any other, it was the echo of a hidden desire, of a piece of himself that refused to disappear into the shadows. Like a gust of wind that lifts the dust and reveals what you thought you'd forgotten.

When Lan Xichen turned his face, the movement was slow, careful, as if he knew he was about to discover something he didn't really want to see. His hair moved with him, like a wave following the movement of a body trying to escape, but inevitably letting itself be dragged back. The window, which before was just an opening onto the world, now became the gateway to another reality. An illusion of normality, of calm. But, like the light that filters through the clouds, what arrived was not clear, but nuanced, full of contradictions.

The cat nearby wasn't just an animal. It was an image of a part of himself he could never tame. Elegant and still, with those eyes that seemed to know more ancient truths than he could understand. That gaze, as penetrating as it was distant, was the reflection of a strength that refused to give in. A strength that perhaps had never belonged to him, but to who he had been before, who he could have been if he had had the courage to look at himself without fear. Next to the cat, the little bird was his antithesis. Trembling, fragile, wounded, but still alive, still able to make a sound. A silent cry against the death that was creeping into his nerves, against the weight that weighed on his heart. His small paw, bent in an unnatural way, was the symbol of a suffering that could not be ignored. Yet, despite everything, there was resistance, a desire to exist, to breathe, not to be swallowed up by the end.  

The cat and the little bird. Two opposite beings, but somehow similar, like the two sides of the same coin. Both were part of that scene, as he himself was part of that stillness, of that silence that asked for nothing except to be understood. The cat, in all its haughtiness, represented the part of him that remained standing, the part that didn't give up. The bird, however, was what remained when his strength had given way, when fear had crept in and forced him to bend down. Lan Xichen, his eyes fixed on them, realized that the scene was not just a reflection of what he saw, but what he felt. His laughter, his strength, his pain, were there, like a dance of oppositions, like the contrast between the strong and the fragile, the vivid and the dying. The one did not exist without the other. The part of himself that smiled was not only the one that saw the world in all its beauty, but also the one that, wounded, was still looking for a reason to continue to hope.

And so he smiled, not at the beauty of the scene, but at the truth he found there. A smile that was born from the knowledge that, despite the wounds, despite the pain, a part of him had never stopped searching. Like the little bird that, despite its broken leg, still wanted to be heard. Like the cat who, despite being far from the world, remained close to something he could not ignore.  

Lan Xichen stood there, as if his body had forgotten how to move, while the little bird invaded the space that a moment ago was his alone. His eyes followed the small bird, its fragile form looking more like a spark of life than a real being. Every movement of the bird was an enigma, every flap of its wings an unanswered question. The cup of tea, which remained there motionless, seemed more like a witness than a presence, its contents vanished leaving only the echo of an act that no longer knew what it meant.

The bird landed on the table, almost as if it had chosen that place to tell him something Lan Xichen wasn't ready to hear. It peered at him with those bright, penetrating eyes, its head tilted as if it wanted to ask something no one had ever dared to ask. "Who are you?" he seemed to ask, as if he had come from another world, to remind him that, sometimes, the answer to a question is not found in the answer, but in the question itself. That small trembling being, who stopped on a table now empty of meaning, seemed more like a reflection on what was missing, on what Lan Xichen had perhaps already forgotten to look for. 

Then the cat. A quick movement, silent like a thought that slips into the mind without being noticed, and she approached him, that raised leg. His purring, those imperceptible vibrations, were the other side of the same coin. A reassurance that came like a caress in the midst of the turmoil. The warmth of his fur mingled with the chill that still imbued Lan Xichen's skin, and there was more truth in that gesture than words could contain.

A cat, a bird: two creatures that should have avoided each other, but now seemed to exist side by side, in a precarious yet perfect balance. Lan Xichen's loneliness, that fog that enveloped his thoughts, began to fade. There was no longer the fear of losing himself, because in that moment he was finding something he wasn't looking for: connection. The warm purr and the cold of that little bird whispered to him the same secret, which perhaps, after all, were not so different. And that maybe, sometimes, it was more important to simply be there, with something next to you, than trying to understand what it was. The table, the cup of tea not moved, the air that vibrated with a quiet that had nothing definitive, but only suspended. Like the flapping of a bird's wings, like a caress from a cat, like an unspoken laugh that is lost in the air. There was something deeper, like a bond that didn't need words to understand.

Lan Xichen's heart began to flutter like a creature that, after being under glass for too long, smelled the outdoors for the first time. He slowly turned his head towards the door, as if that single gesture was enough to invoke change. It was there, not far away, but it seemed to be perched on the edge of the world, fragile like wet paper and heavy like sacred stone.

He rose to his feet. His knees trembled under the weight of a decision that wasn't made of muscles or bones, but of old beliefs that were starting to crumble. Every movement was a ford, every breath a fracture in the silence that for years had kept him immobile. The cat looked at him, his eyes golden like mirrors of dawn. The little bird, still on the table, tilted its little head to the side, as curious as a child in front of an adult who has just forgotten how to cry. They were wary animals by nature, yet now they seemed silent witnesses of something changing. It was not just a man who stood up. It was the beating of wings that they had thought were broken. It was the cage that creaked under the pressure of a will that had been dormant for too long. It was the beginning of something that not even he could name. But he knew – yes, he knew – that he was worthy.

Lan Xichen's heartbeat was like a bird trapped in a cage, twitching with the desire to fly. But he wasn't flying yet, he was just trying to figure out if he was strong enough to break the bars, or if the only thing he knew how to do was stay there, waiting for a fate he hadn't chosen. His gaze stopped at the door. It was not just a physical gap, but the epicenter of an existence that was crumbling piece by piece. 

A step. One step for all the times he had chosen to remain hidden in his golden prison, giving up the light, the open air. Every breath felt like a stone weighing on his chest. A passage that spoke of years of sacrifices, of silence and complacency, of that false promise of being seen by someone who, in reality, had never really looked at him. Not by the one who should have. Who could have made him understand that it wasn't necessary to be reduced to a shadow to be loved. And it wasn't just the foot that moved, it was the entire architecture of a man that moved off axis, like a statue that decides to shake off the dust of centuries, knowing that every grain is also a piece of its own history. One step that didn't take him away from the pain, but pushed him through it. Because the door he looked at wasn't just wood and a threshold, it was a border: between what he had believed to be right and what he now knew to be true.He had sold his voice for a safe place, he had sewn silence onto himself, hoping that it would be enough to not get hurt. But silence, like a frozen lake, appears solid until it breaks. And now he walked on that ice that gave way under every unspoken word.

Another step, and his own thoughts seemed to stumble over each other, like prisoners released too quickly. Who had done it, and for whom? Who had he wanted to be, and at what cost? Loving Jin Guangyao had been like staring at the sun through colored glass: you delude yourself that it doesn't burn, but when you take it away, your eyes cry. And perhaps it wasn't the sun that hurt him, but the belief that that was the only light he was entitled to.Each step towards the door was a silent confession: that anger could be a form of loyalty, that pain could be a prayer, that freedom, in the end, did not resemble an escape, but a return to something he had always known, but had never dared to listen. 

The cat rubbed against his leg, soft like a no longer painful memory. The little bird watched him from the table, and his eyes were not those of judgment, but of question. Who are you, now that you're no longer hiding?

Two steps. Two steps to the smell of the earth beneath his feet, a scent that took him back to a simpler time, before his heart was corrupted by deception and lies. The land was the only thing that had never betrayed him. The truth of what he had walked before, before that lie called love, which had made him believe he was everything, that he was the center of a world that turned out to be only a gilded cage. Jin Guangyao. That name that now resonated like poison in his ears, like the memory of a betrayed promise, of a love that had never been such, but only a well-packaged deception. A love built on a lie, with one hand holding his, while the other hid a sharp dagger, ready to inflict a wound that would never heal again. 

Three steps. Three steps for himself. For that part of him that had sold his soul for an illusion, for something he thought he wanted, but now knew was just a chain, a prison. Love. What was it really? A sin to be atoned for? A juggling game where every movement was a lie disguised as pure feeling? Yet, loving had never been a sin, at least not until you were forced to hide the pain, to pretend that poison was honey, that the cage was a nest, that love was true. The truth, however, burned like a brand imprinted on the skin, and Lan Xichen now found himself in front of it, with his heart divided between the desire to escape and the awareness that, perhaps, the only possible escape was towards himself. 

Four steps. Four steps for the guilt he had imposed on himself, for the weight that had been nailed to his heart, as if he had been the executioner of his own imprisonment. Every step he took seemed to bring him closer to a form of forgiveness he didn't know he deserved. But there was an awareness in him: the sin was not to love, but to allow someone to take their freedom, to allow love to be used as a cage, as a trap. And now, as his heartbeat quickened, Lan Xichen finally found himself in front of the door, that door that opened onto a freedom he had never dared to seek. His cage had been built by others, but now it was he who decided when to open the door and walk towards something that, perhaps, he didn't yet know. But which, finally, he felt he deserved.

The cat looked at him with eyes full of a wisdom that wasn't his. An animal, instinctive wisdom that didn't need words to know that he too, in some way, was afraid of that opening. The little bird, however, didn't seem to think too much, as if he had never questioned his freedom. A step forward and Lan Xichen felt like a tree that had grabbed its roots too deeply, and now, for the first time, he felt the wind lift him from the ground. There was an illusion of lightness, but also a weight in that lightness: the wind could move it, but it could also knock it down.

Each step was a breath that revealed his wounds. A hidden truth that was finally revealing itself like an old painting that the dust had hidden for too long. The love he had sought, the truth he had told himself, the cages he had built around himself... All this had made him vulnerable, but not anymore. The movement of that door, that seemingly insignificant gesture, brought with it the echo of a thousand refusals. But rejection no longer defined him. Perhaps, for the first time, it was really him who decided. Slowly, his raised foot touched the floor, and the world around him seemed to stop for an instant, like a held breath. But the door was still far away, and with every inch he gained, his own cage seemed tighter. Maybe it was the first step towards freedom, or maybe just the first step towards a new prison, an even darker one, built with the fragments of a heart that finally stopped lying to itself. 

Five steps. And the silence was no longer that accomplice to the pain, but that before the singing. He didn't know if he was running away or returning. But maybe they were the same thing: going out to meet the world, or going out to meet himself. 

But there was the door. And as his foot moved, he felt like he was walking on a knife's edge, and every breath he took was a tear between what he had experienced and what could have been. It was as if he had never stopped trying to enter a place he didn't even know existed, yet every time he got closer, the door seemed to move further away. He was a prisoner, but not of the cage: of his own research. Every step he took, his body betrayed him, reminding him that there are no roads of no return. Yet, his heart, for the first time, urged him to walk. Not for freedom, but for the courage to understand what the prison in which he found himself truly was.

The wind, which entered through the half-open door, touched his face, like a caress that smacked of farewell. But goodbye to what? Maybe it was he himself who wanted to say goodbye to his prison, but in doing so, he was also separating himself from every truth he had chosen to tell himself. Each step revealed to him a part of himself that he didn't want to see, and yet, in that painful revelation, he felt more whole, more alive. Each movement was like a small act of rebellion against the weight he had carried inside for too long. But the rebellion was not a cry. It was a silence.

The door, now closer, was no longer just an entrance. It was a promise, a promise that brought him face to face with his own fear, that fear of not knowing who he would become once he walked through it. The door, that fragile yet heavy door, almost seemed to call him. Every fiber of the wood, every fold in the paper, seemed to whisper his name, like an ancient call that no one else could hear. Lan Xichen stood still, heart pounding against his ribs, but breathing, strangely, freer than he had ever allowed himself to imagine. The keys, those keys that he had always carried with him, although he had never had the courage to use them, were finally in his hands. They were no longer part of a role play, of a duty imposed by others, but a real possibility: the way out.

Yet, it was not the door that was the border. The border, as he had just realized, was inside him. It was his own mind that had built invisible walls around his heart, wrapping it in illusions of duty, of guilt, of fear of never being enough. But now... now the door was no longer a threat. It was a promise. And that thought, like a flame, lit him. Lan Xichen understood that his liberation did not depend on whether the doors were closed or open, but on how much he was willing to let go of the weight he had put on himself, the weight of a role he had never chosen but had accepted for too long. 

He no longer wanted to be the keeper of a prison he had built for himself. He no longer wanted to continue sleeping with the ghosts, those regrets that now seemed to him to be nothing more than shadows magnified by the fear of the past. Words were no longer his prison, emotions were no longer a cage. And the emptiness he felt inside wasn't a sign of lack, but of potential. A blank page, finally ready to be written by him, as he would have wanted. It didn't matter if the rain touched him, if it was the sun or the wind. Every step he took out of that door would be a step towards his truth, the one he had ignored for too long, for fear of finding it and having to face it.

The truth was no easy answer, no refuge. But Lan Xichen, for the first time, knew that he no longer wanted to live in another person's reflection, or in the pain of what could have been. He was no longer looking for recognition, forgiveness, justification. He wanted to live. He wanted to walk, finally, without the weight of other people's expectations on his shoulders. Even if the world outside seemed like an unknown, even if uncertainty was the only companion he would have. But that door, which he was now about to pass through, was not just a step towards the outside. It was the start of a journey that would bring him back to himself.

So he reached out to the door, and he was shaking.

Not from the cold, not from the effort. He trembled like the strings of a harp tremble at the first note after years of silence. Like the skin of someone who, having remained in the shade for too long, feels the light touch him again without protection. His fingers rested on the wood with the same hesitation of someone touching a sacred and forbidden relic, a boundary he had never really dared to cross. And it wasn't the door that was frightening, but what was behind it. Or maybe what he would have left behind. Because every step forward was also a goodbye: to a self that no longer wanted to be, to every lie accepted for a quiet life, to every night spent convincing oneself that love and prison could coexist.

The tremor was a tremor of the soul, the sign he was choosing. Not obeying. Not following. Choosing.

For the first time, perhaps, the world awaited him. Not as a judge. Not as an audience. But like two tired parents, with their hands dirty and eyes full of tears, who see their son returning from a long journey. They would not ask him for explanations. They wouldn't have counted the wrong steps or the too long stops in the dark, they would just have opened their arms because their son had returned to them. Like a promise of a good harvest after the rainy season, the world was a parent with open arms for each of its children, it didn't matter how much time had passed, how many scars he carried, it didn't ask where he had been, or why he had remained silent for so long.

The world didn't want answers, it just wanted to welcome. A man who had started out as such - upright, composed, closed in the form that had been given to him - and who had returned as a human being. With hands dirty with doubts and a heart full of cracks, with knees scratched by silent prayers and lungs that knew the weight of silence. 

He was back in her arms without medals, but with the courage that only arises after defeat. He was no longer the man who bore his name as a title, but a human being who inhabited it like a house to be rediscovered, room after room. And the world, which did not want answers, recognized in him something sacred. Not purity, but the return. Not the strength, but the will of that return. And Lan Xichen, with his breath still trembling in his chest, understood that even if there were thorns outside, storms and roads that perhaps led nowhere... there was something that told him that he would not be alone. Maybe it was that part inside himself that had never stopped hoping. Maybe it was the eyes of the cat and the bird that, without judgment, had watched him move. Or maybe it was the world itself, which - like an offended but patient old friend - was still there, waiting for him.

Lan Xichen, at that moment, realized that perhaps this was the forgiveness he had never dared to ask for. Not that of others, not that of rules, but that of life itself, which had waited for him in silence, without ever closing the door in his face.

Chapter Text

"This is a place where I don't feel alone
This is a place where I feel at home"

There was silence, but not the emptiness of abandoned rooms. It was the kind of silence that follows a long confession, when the words have worn thin and only the steady beat of your heart remains to remind you that you are still alive. The wind passed through the trees with slender fingers, brushing each branch like a reader caressing the edge of a torn page. He wasn't looking for company, but for memory. He was looking for something that had been lost, perhaps in the folds of a breath, perhaps in the footsteps of a man returning to himself.

Lan Xichen walked cautiously, as if every step was a test, a test he had never truly passed. The sound of dry leaves under his shoes was the first voice he heard after a long inner silence. Every creak was a forgotten name, a postponed choice, a guilt still awaiting verdict. For years he had lived in a place where everything had been too lucid to be true. The truths had been polished like marble floors, and he had walked there carefully, not to make any noise, not to leave any trace. Now, however, beneath his feet, the dead leaves crackled like secrets no longer needed, and the sound they made was almost a liberation. The colors of the forest were ordinary. No rare hue, no sculpted beauty. Yet those earthy tones seemed more real to him than all the fine fabrics he had worn. Every vein on a leaf, every patch of moisture on the trunk was a detail that wasn't trying to make itself beautiful. Lan Xichen looked at the trees with eyes that were no longer his, or at least not the ones he had known. Those eyes had seen too much beauty distorted, too much truth twisted to seem like justice. Now, however, he could make out the veins in the bark as if they were wrinkles on a beloved face. The leaves were not just leaves, they were promises of death and rebirth from the ashes.

The sky, wedged between the branches, no longer seemed far away. It was no longer that inaccessible point that he had stared at for years from the windows, with empty eyes and hands clasped in his lap as if searching for something that no one would ever give him back. Now that sky was there, above him, fragmented and imperfect, but close enough to measure its light. It was not an altar, not a condemnation. Only air and distance, traversable.

Lan Xichen stopped, the sound of the leaves dying away under his feet, as if even the ground had decided to let him breathe. The shoulders, which for years had remained straight out of obligation and not force, lowered slightly. It wasn't a dramatic gesture, not a burst of rebellion. Only the body that finally stopped obeying a pain that had become a habit. His hair fell down his back, black, long, loose. There was no trace of his old order. No ritual comb, no jade hair clip. Only the ribbon on his forehead, to remind him who he had been, perhaps who he still was. Yet it no longer felt tight like an oath, it felt like a simple piece of cloth. A symbol that had emptied itself, and which it could now fill again, in its own way. The wind gently touched his hair. It didn't ruffle it, it didn't disturb it. It caressed it as one caresses something one fears breaking. And he didn't flinch. Because there was nothing left to protect: not a role, not a reputation. Only skin, flesh, memory. And a silent question: what are you, now that you are no longer who you were?

The clothes were crooked, the color a little faded by the humidity. The edges crumpled, a grass stain on the side ,they looked like the clothes of an ordinary man. And for the first time he wasn't ashamed of it. Every fold was proof. Not of decadence, but of existence. He had walked, he had made a mistake. He had cried alone, his shaking hands clasped to his face so as not to be heard even by the walls.  The ground beneath his feet wasn't soft, nor welcoming. It was real, damp and uneven, with fragments of broken branches scratching the thin sole. Every step wasn't just a movement: it was the memory of the days he'd let himself rot in a house where even the light had stopped coming in. Now, every step reminded him that there were still things rough enough to hurt, but worth walking through.

The wind caressed his hair like a mother who doesn't know how to ask for forgiveness. Light, but unsteady. As if the world was trying to touch him without waking what was sleeping beneath his skin. And Lan Xichen, for the first time, did not stiffen. He let himself be touched. The contact wasn't gentle, it was tolerable. And that was enough. The ribbon on his forehead no longer protected him. It was a residue, like the dry bones of a promise that had forgotten its taste. It held his head tight, no longer questioning, but now he was the one wondering if he still had the right to wear it. The answer never came and perhaps it wasn't needed. Maybe it was enough to keep wearing it, not to represent something, but to remind yourself every day that you had survived the shame. His clothes were a map made of stains, folds, smudges of dust and sweat that drew a topography of abandonment and resistance. There was no longer the obsessive attention to perfect edges and invisible seams. There was the sign of a body that had stopped asking permission to breathe, every crease was a no it had said to the silence that swallowed it. 

There were no spectators, no one to correct the way he placed his feet or measure the distance between his shoulder blades. And for this reason, perhaps, staying still had become more difficult. When he was alone, he had to listen to his voice which did not excuse him, it was only poisonous.  Lan Xichen advanced slowly, each step a surrender and a challenge at once. The ground beneath his feet was not just dirt, but a web of memories caked like the dust on his boots. Every pebble crushed under the weight of his body seemed to say: “You are no longer hidden. You can no longer go back.” Yet, that rough and indifferent soil was the only sincere witness to that journey: neither pity nor condemnation, just reality.

Inside him, the harshest judge had a cold, implacable voice, which bounced between his bones and muscles like an endless echo. It wasn't an echo of new accusations, but the reverberation of all those he had already endured, every time he had turned to look inside himself and found only silence or a labyrinth of guilt with no way out. Every step was a beat against that inner jury, a challenge to prove that even with that burden he could still move. His back, bent for years under the weight of expectations and regrets, now moved like a taut harp vibrating under the fingers of an inexperienced musician. It wasn't the perfection of balance, but the tension of someone trying to get up after a long fall, knowing that the melody that will emerge will be out of tune, but true. The shoulder blades, ancient anchor points for invisible armor, were now merely bones supporting a tired body, no longer armor. 

The heart was a ferocious but hungry beast, beating against the cage of the ribs as if it wanted to come out, but also feared doing so. It was both the prison and the key. Every heartbeat reminded him that he could no longer hide in silence, that the path to the sect was not just a distance to be covered, but a passage within himself, where every step would be a surrender but also an act of courage. His hands, usually so adept at hiding emotions behind gentle or cold gestures, now hung at his sides like two anchors ready to drag him down, or perhaps to hold on to what was left of him. The fingers moved slightly, touching the air as if searching for a shape they couldn't yet recognize. They were hands marked by multiple betrayals, not only of others but also of himself. Yet, on that journey, they began to rediscover their lightness, a different weight: that of awareness, no longer of guilt.

The wind swept across the path like an invisible blade, carrying with it the smells of wet earth and dead leaves, but also something new, something uncertain. It was a wind that didn't ask permission to enter, a wind that shook the leaves but also our certainties. Lan Xichen felt it on his skin like a challenge: he could choose to remain still, or let himself be stripped of what had trapped him.  

Lan Xichen walked along the path that wound through tall bamboo. The reeds bent lightly in the wind, producing a continuous whisper, like an ancient breath passing through the forest. The greenery around was a thin and fragile wall, but at the same time a cage that didn't know whether it wanted to protect or imprison. The water flowed not far away, an invisible stream behind the thicket, murmuring incessantly. That sound was like a thread connecting the past to the present: the flowing water recalled the unstoppable passage of time, and at the same time the possibility of continuous change. Each drop was an uncertain reflection, like his thoughts.

Lan Xichen felt the weight of absence, not only physical but emotional, as if every step brought him closer to an invisible clash. He wondered if he should have carried his sword, that piece of iron that symbolized not only protection but also his inner strength. But the sword, at the same time, was a shadow that could take him back to those days when he fought against himself rather than against the world. The path ahead of him was filled with invisible presences: who would he meet at the sect? Friends, enemies, or just ghosts? The question was a tight knot in my chest, an uncertainty that grew with the sound of footsteps. It wasn't just the body that was walking, but an entire story made up of doubts, fears and unspoken desires. 

The wind in the bamboo seemed to carry distant whispers, perhaps from those who were already waiting for it or from those who had already given up waiting for it. It was a fine line between what was and what could be, and Lan Xichen walked that fragile line, choosing to take up his sword or let it rest at his side, like a part of himself he didn't want to face yet. Lan Xichen paused for a moment, watching them, his breath catching. His eyes fell on a point in the path where the bamboo gave way to a small opening, a glimpse from which the beginning of the sect's grounds could be seen. He was no longer a man fleeing, but not yet a man returning. It was something in between, like water between stones: it had no definite shape, but it moved forward anyway. Maybe, that was what mattered.

The path curved slightly, and it was as if his breath was caught against a rib too old to take the blow any longer. The Gusu Lan lay before him like a poorly healed scar: the edges were the same, but the skin above was new, shiny, and different. The curved roofs and white columns were still there, yet they seemed to have forgotten the weight of its name. The courtyards were clean. The disciples walked without hesitation. No one looked around the corner, no one seemed to be holding their breath for a return. The world he had abandoned… had learned to breathe without him.

And in that orderly silence, every gesture took on an absurd weight. A disciple on his way to class. Another walking alongside another with a straight back and a crooked smile. Small movements, normal, but they fell on his shoulders like stone blows. Lan Xichen realized a truth that isolation had always kept from him: there was no rubble from which to rise. Just a place that had continued to live, with him or without him. For years he had prepared himself to be forgiven or rejected. Two clear, sharp extremes, like sharp blades. But the third option was the cruelest: the indifference of time. Normality that mends itself and pain that is not removed, but absorbed.  

One step forward and he felt the ground creak under his feet, as if the earth itself was remembering his return, but with a mixture of hesitation and resignation. The quiet around him was a trap, because without the attention of others, only the harshest judge remained: himself. That silence spoke to him of everything he had denied, hidden, suffocated. It was like looking in the mirror and seeing a face he no longer recognized, a man torn between what he had been and what he perhaps would never be again.

Lan Xichen wanted to scream, but he had no voice. He wanted to run away, but the body was still. He was trapped in an invisible web of broken expectations and unspoken hopes. The freedom he had sought had the bitter taste of an uncomfortable truth: being free did not mean being finally safe, but only facing the weight of one's own loneliness and one's own truth. He looked at the sky framed between the tiles, which was no longer a distant goal but a fragile roof above his head. He was there, finally, but he didn't know if it was a shelter or a cage. That moment struck him like a blade that cuts and consoles at the same time, because in that fragile light lay the greatest challenge: to truly live, despite everything.  At that precise moment, the door behind him slowly opened. Lan Xichen turned and saw two familiar figures. Nie Mingjue and Lan Qiren. Time, for an instant, shattered into suspended fragments. Everything moved, but as if immersed in a dense, opaque substance. The disciples passing behind the two men seemed like distant, blurry projections. The sound of the wind blowing through the courtyard stopped being natural music and became a muffled buzz, as if the world were holding its breath.

Lan Xichen felt his heart contract as if an invisible fist had squeezed it violently. The step back he took was an ancient gesture, a reflex learned by those who have had too many moments when escape was the only refuge. The wood under his feet creaked, and that creak was like a crack: in the silence, in the moment, in the present. It wasn't just a noise. It was reality declaring itself. It was the signal that he could no longer hide. Nie Mingjue's eyes widened, as if his body were trying to react before his mind. The hand that rose was shaking, not from uncertainty, but from the force with which it was trying to reach him. It didn't seem like a mechanical gesture, but something instinctive, as if he were trying to hold on to a dream that was in danger of fading with the light of day. And Lan Xichen, when he saw that hand, saw not just a friend. He saw everything he had left behind: the pain, the anger, the disappointment, but also the trust, the respect, the possibility—remote and terrifying—of still being recognized for what he was, and not for what he had been.  

Lan Xichen stepped back, and the wood beneath his feet creaked softly, as if the house wanted to hold him back, as if even the boards acknowledged the weight of his return. His breathing became ragged, his eyes wide, glued to those two figures who were looking at him as if he were looking at a ghost or a miracle. His knees shook. Not from the cold, not from the fatigue. But from the panic of existing again in other people's lives. His face twisted into an expression that attempted to be a smile, and his neck went red, as it only did when he was overwhelmed, but it was only a grimace that shattered on his lips, like a broken vase held together by the desire to be whole. He wanted to say something; a joke, an apology, an explanation but no word had enough strength to sustain the collapse that was crashing down on him.

Nie Mingjue, on the other hand, moved towards him without haste, but with the determination of someone who had lost something he thought was irretrievable, and now could not risk it slipping through his fingers again. His steps were silent, heavy with nameless emotions, and every meter filled between them seemed to remove a year's distance, one at a time. The smile that spread across Nie Mingjue's face was an implosion: full, overflowing, yet restrained, as if he didn't dare let go completely. Lan Xichen tried to lower himself, to make himself smaller, but it was no use. Nie Mingjue reached him, grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him towards him with a gesture that didn't ask for permission, that didn't need words. 

Nie Mingjue didn't hold it right away, he touched it first with his hand, just a little, as if Lan Xichen were made of thin porcelain, as if a brusque gesture would make him vanish. His fingers were shaking—he who never trembled—and that touch on his shoulder was a shock, as if he wanted to make sure he wasn't touching a hallucination. Then he pulled him to him, with a strength that didn't ask for permission, but begged to stay. He held him as if his own heart needed that physical shock to beat again. There was no grace, no control: it was an embrace that broke, that tried to put the pieces back together without knowing where they were going. Nie Mingjue's arms closed around Lan Xichen like walls after a collapse, and there was the dull sound of his breath being torn from his chest.

Lan Xichen remained rigid for only a moment. Then everything inside him broke. There was no resistance, only collapse. His body gave way in his friend's arms, as if finally someone could truly hold him. He clutched at his robe like a man about to sink, and in doing so, let go of everything he'd held inside for too long. Lan Xichen cried with a broken sound that seemed to come from his lungs and his memory at the same time, as if he were coughing up years of loneliness. Sobs shook his chest, his forehead pressed against Nie Mingjue's shoulder, his fingers tightening into the fabric like claws. Nie Mingjue didn't say anything,it was no use. His eyes closed, and his chin trembled. A deep breath went through him. He wasn't prepared, no one would be. He had feared that moment a thousand times, dreamed of it just as many. And now that he held him in his arms, he wouldn't let him go. The silence around them was as heavy as the sky before a storm. Lan Qiren, a few steps back, watched. It meant something — the name, at least. But the lump in her throat was too tight, and in her eyes I could read something ancient: remorse, affection, fear. He remained motionless, a spectator of a scene he had prayed to see again, but for which he had not prepared.

Lan Xichen, who had walked among ghosts, that was the first truly alive breath in a long, long time, his best friend. The only one who had ever looked at him without expecting perfection, without weighing his every word as if it were gold or poison. Nie Mingjue was there, in his arms—or maybe it was the other way around, maybe it was Lan Xichen who had been gathered, held, contained in those arms wide like promises kept too late.  And even though they had only spoken a few hours earlier, even though the words between them had begun to thaw the ice, having him back there was a dream that was coming true too quickly to seem real. Lan Xichen felt it in the dull beating of the other's heart, against his own cheek, felt it in the grip of his hands that left no room for escape. He was back, he was really there. And Lan Xichen for an instant, the world stopped being scary.

There was something childish in that contact, something ancient. Before the shame, before the fall, before the silence that had divided them. As if their bodies recalled a time when just touching each other was enough to believe in each other, and in that embrace there were too many years to hold together, too much absence to compress into a single gesture. Lan Xichen felt his fingers tighten around Nie Mingjue's back as if he were anchoring himself to reality. As if his friend might disappear if he loosened his grip even for an instant.

Nie Mingjue placed a hand on the back of Lan Xichen's head, with a gentleness that seemed stolen from another life. His fingers ran through his loose hair, black and soft, messy from the wind and shame. Lan Xichen did not raise his face. He hid it in his friend's chest, sinking into the familiar gray of his tunic as if there were a last resort there, a refuge he didn't remember having, but could no longer deny. "Are you here… are you really here?" Nie Mingjue whispered, his voice losing all certainty. He, who had faced battles without ever trembling, now seemed like a man who feared even breathing too loudly, as if the sound might shatter the illusion. It was a question asked more to the silence than to Lan Xichen, as if he still doubted his own eyes. Lan Xichen didn't respond. He shook his head, an imperceptible gesture, like a branch bent by the wind. He had no voice. There was none left, not for him. Only the tears that slipped silently, wetting the cloth beneath his face, confessed everything he could not say.

Nie Mingjue felt the tremor pass through his bones. He tightened his grip on the back of his friend's neck a little, as if he wanted to keep him glued to reality. As if she wanted to prevent him from disappearing again into the veils of isolation, memories, guilt. "Please stay. This time, stay..." he said, his voice breaking and breaking, "don't ever play a trick on me like that again, Xichen..." It was then that his eyelids closed. Tightly,as if to hold back something that had already slipped through the defenses. And when his lips moved again, the word came out broken in his throat, closer to a plea than a greeting. "Welcome back." 

Nie Mingjue had never felt so weak. Yet he held tight. The arms around Lan Xichen weren't just a hug: they were a dam against everything he'd never said, everything that had burned in his stomach in the years Lan Xichen had disappeared, buried alive by an idea of atonement. He wouldn't let go. His hands—large, calloused, rough—held him still as one holds a dream that might vanish. That might close a door again and disappear without a trace. Nie Mingjue felt the bones under his fingers: Lan Xichen had lost weight. Fragile. More real than ever, precisely because he wasn't perfect. Precisely because it was there, broken. Mingjue's chest rose and fell, and his tears wet Lan Xichen's hair. No words were enough for him, but he tried anyway. He tried with what he had, even though he was shaking. "Please...stay." It wasn't a prayer to heaven, or to some forgotten god. It was for him. For that broken man he had loved like a brother, as the first to understand, the first to truly look at him. And then he had disappeared. Lan Xichen didn't answer, but his silence was louder than any words. He was crying softly, his face pressed against his friend's chest, as if seeking oxygen under his skin. As if only in there he could still remember what it means to be safe.

Nie Mingjue's grip tightened. One hand behind the head, the other on the back—a pair of pliers, yes, but made of love and desperation. When he spoke again, his voice cracked even more. "Don't ever do this to me again, Xichen… Don't leave me out. Don't disappear again." And then it was his turn to give in. Tears ran slowly down his hard cheeks, carving paths in a face accustomed to war, not loss. Not to this kind of surrender. And he held Lan Xichen as if he too needed to be forgiven, as if he too was guilty. As if the hug was their only chance not to disappear. 

Around them, the world slowed down. The disciples had stopped. Some ran to look for HanGuang-Jun, others slipped away, spreading the word like a whispered prayer through the corridors: ZeWu-Jun has broken his isolation. The words bounced off the trees, through the silent corridors of the sect like petals moved by a sudden wind. They said it softly, as if it were a spell that could vanish if spoken too loudly.

Yet, in the midst of that resurrection, Lan Qiren did not immediately move. He took a step back, slowly, almost uncertainly, as if trying to put a barrier between himself and the world that had opened up before him. And when he finally turned to them, he never quite did. Only from the side, with his chin slightly tilted, as if he wanted to protect his face from the world. From the judgment of others, or perhaps from his own reflection, as if being seen in that moment could tear him apart more than shame.

A traitorous tear slid down his cheek. He didn't have the presence of mind to hold it back, nor the strength to erase it quickly. It was the tear of a man who had loved without knowing how to show it. That he had failed, not in discipline, but with everything else. It was the tear of someone who had never learned to apologize, but in that tear I let everything flow: the remorse, the waiting, the guilt, the silent prayer of an old man who had silently asked heaven to be able to see his grandson's face in the light of day again, even just once.

Lan Qiren was many things, a respected master. A beacon for generations of disciples. A man of rules, of form, of duties. But at that moment he was just an uncle who had judged before even listening. Who had been afraid to come closer when the pain in Lan Xichen's eyes was still fresh. Who had chosen doctrine over comfort. And now, now he didn't know how to do it anymore. He reached to raise a hand to his face, but held back. Behind his back, his fist clenched. Not out of anger. But to hold together something that was about to explode. He had no right, no honor, he thought. Because he had not been able to be anything other than a severe judge. He had taught the young people how to write verses and keep their backs straight, but no one had ever taught him how to welcome a broken son without reciting a lesson. No one had explained to him how to love when love doesn't follow rules.

He turned around, because he knew he had neither the right nor the honor to advance further. Lan Qiren knew the rules of discipline, the severity of teaching, the boundaries that every master must draw. But he had never learned that lesson. Not that lesson about loving without conditions, without wielding judgment like a sword. Lan Qiren was a master, yes, but in that moment he was only a wounded man, a man who was learning what it means to welcome those who have suffered, without bending them under the weight of expectations or a past that was too harsh. 

Chapter Text

"Every whisper, of every waking hour
I'm choosing my confessions"

The tea steam rose between Lan Xichen's fingers, floating slowly, uncertainly, like the time they had wasted. Each coil broke in the air with the fragility of a forgotten promise, and then disappeared—soundlessly, ingloriously. It wasn't just warmth he felt on his skin, but the weight of motionless hours, of days squeezed into a room too silent, of thoughts that curled up on themselves until even the pain no longer knew where to begin.

The cup trembled slightly in his hands. No one would have noticed the movement, but he did. There was a time when Lan Xichen believed that simply disappearing would fix things. That it was enough to remove himself from the world for the pain to dissipate: his, others', everyone's. A childish illusion, he understood now. The silence had erased nothing. It had simply placed its hands around his neck, squeezing gently, a little tighter each day. He had built a cage inside himself, one in which guilt did not die, but took shape, a face, a voice. Some nights, he woke up with the impression that the cage had a rusty lock, and that he had thrown away the key himself, years before, without really thinking about it. His fingers around the damp ceramic had almost gone numb. The warmth of the cup kept him anchored to that moment, kept him from fading away again. Because there was a part of him that wanted to stand up, bow, ask for forgiveness, and then leave. Leave that room as one leaves a temple after a vain prayer. But there was another part, tiny and stubborn, that wanted to stay. Who wanted to know if there was still a place for him there. 

Every time steam rose from the cup, Lan Xichen looked at it as if he were watching a thought he doesn't have the courage to finish. It wasn't just warmth fading into the air, but a series of things left unsaid, words left unsaid over the years. Each spiral was a memory that detached itself from the mind to return to burn just beneath the skin. The steam wasn't rising: it was escaping. And in doing so, he seemed to carry with him a fragment of the calm that Lan Xichen was desperately trying to maintain. The room was quiet, but not empty. It seemed like the kind of silence that accumulates only after something has been broken and then put back together with shaking hands: a silence that doesn't erase, but preserves. As paper absorbs ink, that place absorbed the shadows of what had not been said, of what had been said badly, too late, or too soon. Time didn't pass; he coiled around himself, like a snake biting its tail, not knowing whether he wanted to defend himself or destroy himself.

Lan Xichen struggled to keep his shoulders straight, but he knew it would take little for everything to buckle. It wasn't tiredness, he had already overcome that a long time ago. It was the feeling of still having to answer questions that no one had ever asked. Lan Xichen was sitting, but his body still seemed on the verge of escape. Every vertebra in his back was a dissonant note, as if the effort to remain upright required a discipline that no longer belonged to the flesh, but only to memory. He held himself composed as one holds a promise that is now empty: out of decency, not out of faith.

The cup in his hands was warm and moist. A foothold that didn't really belong to him, but that anchored him enough to keep him from falling completely. The fingers weren't shaking, not anymore. They had trembled enough, they had learned the lesson of fear, and now they simply held back. Holding on to everything. When he looked up, he briefly touched Nie Mingjue. That look was enough to evoke all the fragments of a friendship too full to be simple. The pain, the pride, the anger chewed up and spat out halfway, the trust broken and then restored with pieces that no longer fit together. It was there, sitting beside him, like a mountain that doesn't ask you to climb, but to remember that it has also survived the storm. 

Across from him, Nie Mingjue sat rigidly. Not in the way you stand at attention, but in the way you sit in a minefield: every move potentially lethal, every word an explosion held in your throat. The hands clasped between the knees were not a gesture of calm, but of containment. As if he were grabbing himself by the bones, preventing himself from getting up, from saying too much, from saying badly. His breathing was regular, but only apparently. It was a trained regularity, learned by force, like that of soldiers who march even when no one commands. His gaze was fixed, too fixed, nailed to the spot where Lan Xichen had placed his eyes, as if that were where the key to unlocking an entire sentence was hidden.

Every now and then, Nie Mingjue would half-part his lips, but then close them again, as if every word would reach his teeth and then fail the test of his heart. The tongue of those made of earth and oaths does not know the verbs of pain well. He had learned to say “right”, “wrong”, “fault”, “duty”. But "I missed you"? That was another language, and the dictionary had been snatched from his hands a long time ago. And now, there, in front of the man who was once his clearest reflection, the calm part of the water that he stirred. Nie Mingjue was a piece of cracked statue. And it showed: in the effort to hold back the tears that should no longer exist, in the clenched jaw as if even crying were a form of weakness that could not be forgiven. 

He searched for a way to say, “I’m still here,” but his absence had left wounds that had healed crookedly. He didn't know if his voice would do any good or just reopen poorly healed cuts. He didn't know whether Lan Xichen had come back to stay or just to close a circle, and his fiercest fear was that he—of all people—had become a part of Xichen's life that he wanted to free himself from. Like a knot tied around the neck for too long, only serving to prevent him from breathing. Nie Mingjue searched for a way to ask him, "Why did you disappear?" But how could he ask someone why they suffered? How could he ask someone who had hit rock bottom why he didn't come back up sooner? The questions were all potential wounds. All it took was a wrong tone and they became blades. And Nie Mingjue had already done enough damage with force, this time he wanted to find a way to use words to hold, not to hurt.

He was looking, more than anything, for a way to tell Lan Xichen, “I haven’t done so well without you.” But that sentence, that damned recognition had the flavour of broken pride, of a tarnished role, of that part of oneself that had always forced itself to hold everything together. He couldn't easily say “I missed you” to the one he accused. He couldn't say “I needed you” to someone he had let go without following him. Yet every beat of his heart, every small gesture in that room, was screaming it. 

Nie Mingjue stood there, motionless like a mountain that has endured invisible storms without ever bending, but now seemed to be weighed down by the burden of silent years. That silence wasn't absence, it was a dense presence, made of unspoken words, chained emotions, and an expectation that had become flesh and blood, transforming into a sort of invisible prison. He sat like someone who has spent too much time in front of a closed door, wondering whether it was time to knock, force it, or kneel and beg to be let in. Every breath, slow and measured, was an attempt to contain the turmoil churning beneath his skin, a sea of regrets and painfully held-back affections. The room around seemed suspended, the colors muted as if the light was afraid of disturbing that fragile encounter. The smell of tea mingled with the still air, a faint perfume that seemed to imprison the full weight of that moment, a thin thread connecting two souls separated by years but not by an absence of desire or pain. His gaze searched, without yet finding the courage, for a bridge between what had been and what could still be, while his nervous hands closed and opened without control, as if trying to grasp something that was escaping. 

Nie Mingjue had never been a man of soft gestures, yet that firmness now betrayed a hidden vulnerability, a man who had loved without knowing how to show it, who had defended his pride as if it were a fragile armor behind which to hide from remorse. That silence between him and Lan Xichen was the most arduous battlefield, where every absence weighed like a boulder, every missed word became a deep scratch. And yet, despite everything, remaining there, sitting side by side, with the cup of tea slowly steaming between our fingers, was a silent promise, fragile but true, that perhaps, after all that time, we could begin to rebuild. That moment was a thin line, a bridge suspended between the fear of hurting again and the desire to never let go, the awareness that love, even if hidden and complicated, was still there, hidden under the weight of the past, ready to resurface with difficulty, like an uncertain but living flame.

To his left, Lan Qiren seemed to have turned to stone. His gaze fixed on the tea in his ceramic cup, his eyebrows slightly tense. As if in the murky surface he was searching for a reflection he didn't want to admit he desired: the face of a nephew he had let go without understanding. It was there, a hand's breadth away from him. Yet Lan Qiren remained motionless, like a statue carved out of the frost of a winter that refuses to yield. His gaze fixed on the cloudy surface of the tea, where the ripples cast silent shadows that reflected a face too familiar to be just an illusion. It was a face he had learned to forget, or perhaps to ignore, as one ignores the sound of footsteps behind a door that has been closed for too long. That living presence, a few steps away from him, was a backlash that moved earth and stone beneath his armor. Yet, the words remained trapped, stuck in the throat like a knot that wouldn't dissolve. 

Speaking would have meant admitting defeat, confessing that he had let someone go without truly understanding their value, and that battle, made of pride and fear, kept him paralyzed. Every breath seemed to weigh like a boulder, every second that passed was time stolen from a past that could not be rewritten. In that room, the silence wasn't empty, but full of unsaid things, of regrets and hopes that brushed against each other without truly meeting. Lan Qiren knew that, no matter how hard he tried to build walls and rules, that moment would tear everything apart, stone by stone, if only he let go of that weight he had held on to for too long. But he wasn't ready yet, he didn't know how to fight that battle yet.  

The wooden floor creaked softly under the weight of a silence too often broken, as if the air itself was holding its breath, waiting for something it didn't yet know how to say. Lan Qiren stood there, motionless, like a man looking at his reflection in a cracked mirror: he knew his image was fragmented, but he tried to put the pieces together, not knowing whether the mosaic would reveal the truth or a false mask. His eyes searched for something in the room, or perhaps inside himself, a word, a gesture, a sign of forgiveness, but they found only the heavy weight of years of absences, of silences that had carved invisible, deep furrows.

The scent of tea, warm and earthy, slowly rose toward the ceiling, fading into the dim light of the room, a fragile warmth that seemed almost ridiculous in the face of that ocean of unbridged distances. The steam faded into the shadows, and he watched that evanescent dance as one watches a distant promise: real, but impossible to grasp. Lan Qiren felt his heartbeat quicken, like a low drum beneath his skin, yet his body remained rigid, paralyzed by that subtle grip of pride, fear, and regret. 

Lan Xichen didn't look away, even as Nie Mingjue's eyes dug into him like blades that didn't bleed flesh, but something deeper and more invisible. He remained there, still, with the cup between his now warm fingers, as if the heat had evaporated along with his courage, along with the time he had let slip away without resistance. There was a peculiar silence between them, a silence that arose not from the absence of words, but from their gravity. Every sentence seemed suspended between the fear of hurting and the fear of hoping. The room smelled of tea, of wood smoothed by the hands of disciples, of tired ink left open too long. And amid those familiar scents, there was something foreign—the return, the presence of those thought lost, but also the awareness that nothing would ever be the same again. The curtains moved slowly, barely touched by a light breeze that didn't really enter, but seemed to carry with it the memory of things left unsaid, of choices made in the dark.

Lan Xichen felt his uncle's gaze on his shoulder,heavy and undecided. A shadow that didn't dare come closer, that didn't know if it had the right to do so. Lan Xichen didn't turn around. He couldn't bear it. Not yet. But he felt it: the holding back of someone who doesn't know if he can love without first redeeming himself, the step that lengthens and retreats, the throat that tightens to prevent anything that might resemble an excuse from coming out. The tea was almost finished. Just one sip, maybe two. Time, like  the trust, never returned in the same form. But the cup was still in his hand, and that, for now, had to be enough. None of them knew what to do with Lan Xichen's presence in the room. He was back, and that was the problem: returning forces everyone to review their choices, the words left unsaid, the questions left to rot in the most hidden corner of the mind.

Nie Mingjue didn't know whether to look at him again or look away. Lan Xichen was there, a few steps away, alive, whole, but he was not the same man he had been—or perhaps he was, and that was precisely the problem: that time had not changed him as much as he would have liked. He looked fragile, but not out of weakness. It was like a reed snapped by the wind and then straightened, no longer flexible, but still standing. The daylight fell on him like something that didn't quite belong to him.

“It's strange,” Nie Mingjue said finally. His voice had no anger, no heat. It was rough and heavy, like wet earth under your nails, like a word held in your mouth for too long. “To see you in the light of day again.” Lan Xichen looked up from the cup he clutched in his hands. He didn't look directly at him. He looked at a point just next to Nie Mingjue's eyes, as if he could not yet bear the full weight of his presence. There was something in his eyes that resembled neither surrender nor hope. It seemed more like the quiet of someone who has stopped waiting for forgiveness and has learned, with difficulty, to breathe anyway. “Me too,” he said, and that was enough. No defense. No explanation. The silence that followed wasn't empty: it spread across the room like a slow flood, filling every corner with things no one could yet say. Lan Xichen lowered his gaze again. He didn't touch his tea. He didn't search for words. He let the moment pass over him, like a wave that could not be stopped. And Nie Mingjue looked at him again, as one looks at a wound that hasn't completely healed, but which one continues to cover with one's hands for fear that someone else will see it. 

It was then that a laugh was heard, light as a summer wind. "Ah, I told you today was a special day!" a laugh that seemed to carry not even a shadow of itself. Wei Wuxian entered the pavilion as if he had returned home after a long absence, and everything about him smelled of rain washing away the dust—an irruption, yes, but with the delicacy of one who knows that the air is fragile. His smile roared with light, but those who knew him well—and in that room there was no shortage of people who knew him too well—knew that behind that cheerfulness there was a biting sense of time. The same time that had taught him to hide pain behind jokes, and love behind any gesture.

"ZeWu-Jun!" he exclaimed, almost raising dust with his voice alone. “I thought they double-locked you in some cave with the original copies of all the rules of Gusu Lan!” And for a moment he really was that boy from years before, the one who shattered silences as if they were empty shells. Lan Qiren felt the change in the air as soon as Wei Wuxian crossed the threshold, bringing with him an energy that seemed to overturn all silence like a summer wind shaking still leaves. Wei Wuxian's laughter was like a ripple on the calm surface of the lake, that unexpected yet at times necessary sound, a breeze dispersing old clouds. Lan Qiren watched him advance, the same impetuosity as ever, an explosion of light and chaos that seemed to forget the rubble of the past, as if those days were but a distant shadow. But there was something in his voice, in the way he paused to look at Lan Xichen, that betrayed a subtler truth: a smile that wasn't just a joke, but a fragile opening, like the first shoot daring to emerge from the frozen ground.

Lan Wangji, next to Wei Wuxian, was a stark contrast: the impenetrable silence and control, the discreet yet concrete presence, like a rock submerged under water that supports everything without making a sound. His gaze on Lan Xichen wasn't just observation, but a gentle touch, an invisible caress that spoke of a connection that endured despite everything. There was an imposing calm about him, and yet in that calm, for those who cared to see, there was hidden a note of shy sweetness, an unspoken thought that resisted the chill of time.

Wei Wuxian saw the other's face, saw the cheeks that had lost their light, the eyes too still, the posture that was still searching for its place in the world. Something broke inside Wei Wuxian's smile, but it didn't fall. It bent slightly, like a branch giving way under the weight of a thin snow. "Hey," he said, and his voice lowered like a breath on embers. “Welcome back.”  Lan Wangji didn't speak. But when he sat down next to his brother, the gesture was measured and full. Every movement was controlled, of course, as always, but the rigidity he wore was not that of duty. It was restrained tension, unexpressed affection, a silence that became presence. His gaze touched Lan Xichen for an instant, and in that instant something passed that could not be deciphered: respect, perhaps, or nostalgia, or that subtle sense of guilt that arises like a climbing plant on the wall.

Lan Qiren started to speak, but his voice caught in his throat. He felt as if he had been dragged into a scene he could no longer read. His eyes went to Wei Wuxian, and then to Lan Wangji. It was like seeing a fresco he had tried to erase for years return intact under the blows of memory. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready for the vitality that shook the dust of his silences, for the way Lan Wangji stood by his brother with the integrity of an oath. He wasn't ready to feel like there was a missing piece of the puzzle that didn't fit together. To recognize that, in that disorder he had fought so hard, there was a piece of something that he too had lost.  

Lan Qiren stirred with an almost imperceptible movement, like a man awakening from a heavy sleep and struggling to sort out his confused memories. He turned to the newcomers, but couldn't immediately find the words. He closed his eyes for a moment, the gesture of stroking his goatee seemed like an ancient ritual, an attempt to regain control within a vortex that was tightening his chest. When he opened his eyes again, his gaze was steady, but distant, as if he were looking at a border he didn't yet want to cross. "There are some unresolved issues at Lotus Pier," he said without looking at anyone, as if those words could be thrown into the void and hoped they would be answered. "It might be a good time to address them... since Xichen has emerged from his isolation, perhaps this is the right assignment for you to resume your duties. There are problems with some puppets who are causing panic."

Wei Wuxian frowned, his brow furrowing like a plowed field. "Problem with puppets?" he asked, his voice filled with that surprise that hides real tension beneath a veil of sarcasm.

Lan Qiren nodded, his head moving slowly, heavy as a curtain falling on a disturbing scene. "And more. If Jiang-zongzhu is willing to cooperate." The silence that followed Lan Qiren's words was as thick as the smoke from a recently extinguished candle. The air in the pavilion seemed to have stiffened, as if every breath now had to become more careful, deeper. Wei Wuxian stopped smiling altogether. His eyes, a moment before sparkling with a false lightness, became serious, shining with questions that had ancient roots. Puppets. A term he had known too well, for too long.

Lan Qiren wasn't looking at anyone, and in the way he smoothed his goatee—that measured, repeated gesture, part of habit rather than thought—there was a hidden tremor. Not in the hand, but in the time it took him to speak. At that time there was a hesitation that was not his own, as if the man who had always been certain of everything, of every rule, of every doctrine, had found a void within himself that he no longer knew how to fill with the usual answers.

Wei Wuxian nodded slowly, his arms folded, as if his body was still shielding itself from a blow that never came. “Puppets…” he repeated under his breath, more for himself than for the others. Nie Mingjue hadn't even waited for the sentences to settle in the air. His voice was immediate, clear. "I'll come too." It wasn't an offer. It was a decision. The tone was that of someone who wasn't seeking permission, but simply announcing the direction in which he was already starting to walk.

And when Lan Wangji spoke in that low, steady voice, like a distant bell that rings without dying away, something changed in the balance of the pavilion. "Wei Ying could help."  Wei Wuxian had cast a long, hesitant glance at his husband. The very idea of returning to Lotus Pier sank into his stomach like a stone thrown into water: it sank immediately, but the ripples remained on the surface. Returning there. After everything. After Jiang Cheng, after the separation, after the condemnation, after the resurrection. After the absence. There was a part of him that still remembered the path through the lotus fields, the scent of rain on the beams, the rooms where Yanli cooked and he pretended he hadn't stolen the peaches. But Lotus Pier was no longer the same. Jiang Cheng was no longer the same. And he, Wei Wuxian, was certainly not in a position to set foot there as if nothing had happened.

Wei Wuxian tried to calm the air. He chuckled softly, forcing a light tone. “Lan Zhan… you give me too much credit. I don't think I'm welcome.” He wanted to make a joke about it. He had made it his shield for years. But his voice came out broken, and the sentence remained hanging, unfinished. Nie Mingjue spoke then, without hesitation, as if there were nothing to discuss. He looked him in the eye with his angular intensity and said, “Wei Wuxian, you know the most about this matter. You were Yiling Laozu. You would be of great assistance on this mission.”

Wei Wuxian didn't respond right away. The name Lotus Pier was enough to break something. It hadn't been a noise, but an internal movement, imperceptible, like a thin branch that bends silently and holds its breath. He was still sitting, his fingers intertwined in his lap, yet inside him he was already moving. Every word spoken, every look received, slipped away, getting caught in the lump in her throat that she hadn't been able to untie for years. Lotus Pier wasn't a place,  it was a badly stitched wound. A home that never felt like one again. The room was large and silent, filled with the faint sound of a wind that insinuated itself between the beams, caressing the paper walls and making the edges of the curtains vibrate as if they too were listening. There was the smell of incense, the light, pungent kind they used in the Lan pavilions, not the warm, sweet kind Yanli mixed with the herbs in the small brazier. Even the silence was different, here it was composed, disciplined, filled with meaning. Down there, at Lotus Pier, it was made of absences, of empty rooms, of answers never given.

Jiang Cheng's name had settled on his skin like a cold blade. It didn't need anyone to say it out loud, just the possibility that it was there was enough. The thought of finding him in front of you was enough. Eyes narrowed, silent anger, all the words neither of them had ever said right. How many times had he imagined that moment, in his most insecure and fragile thoughts? Too many. Yet no fantasy had ever managed to make it real. His mind always stopped before. Always before the moment when Jiang Cheng would decide whether to take out the whip or hug him. 

Wei Wuxian remembered the paths among the flowers, the rustling of the broad leaves that moved when he ran too fast, the laughter that was lost in the waters. He remembered the way the smell of mud mixed with lotus felt like a hug when he came home dirty, and Yanli would hand him a clean towel without ever really scolding him. She remembered every scratch, every joke Jiang Cheng made, every night they fell asleep back to back without speaking. But now everything was as if seen through fogged glass: still there, but distant, distorted, unreachable. And the more he tried to remember gently, the more he felt the pain creeping up from under his nails.

He turned to Lan Wangji, who remained seated as if nothing could touch him. Wei Wuxian read an unspoken thought in his eyes. A trust that weighed on him like a cloak that was too large. Then there was Nie Mingjue. Who had spoken without hesitation, as if it were obvious. You are the one who knows the most about this subject. It was true. But it was a stinging truth. Which forced him to face everything he had built and then lost. That look on him made him feel the weight of his own history without being able to shake it off. He didn't know if it was an honor or a punishment. Yet, for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel dirty hearing it. Only exposed.

Wei Wuxian stiffened. He wanted to know if that was a compliment or a disguised accusation. He would have liked to know if the words were sewing a merit or a burden onto him. But what he really felt was something different, something he didn't expect: respect. Not blind veneration, nor fear. Just raw respect, without adjectives. That, perhaps, scared him more than any insult. And in response, his body did what it had long since learned to do: it pulled away. It cringed. The shoulders slightly hunched, the smile barely hinted at, as if to say I'm not who you think, leave me out of it.

Lan Qiren watched him. The same stern expression, but something different in his eyes, an older, more subtle tension. As if judgments and memories were overlapping within him, as if order and discipline were crumbling inside him a moment before he could pronounce them out loud. Wei Wuxian opened his mouth to disagree, to find an elegant escape route, to volunteer for anything rather than be the center of the storm once again. But Lan Qiren stroked his goatee. A simple, yet definitive gesture. “Good,” he said, his tone as dry as a drawn blade. “I will personally write to Sandu Shengshou. It is decided. During our absence, Lan Wangji—I trust in your management.” 

The last words cut like a knife. His gaze moved like a blade among those present, and no one dared to reply. “Good. Everyone out. Too much talk.” It wasn't an invitation. It was a sentence. One by one, those present rose, bowed, and moved toward the exit, leaving behind only the echo of footsteps and the faint smell of now-cold tea. Wei Wuxian stayed a moment longer, just to tell Lan Xichen about the new markets at Lotus Pier, the flower boats, and the old fisherman who used to always offer him a bowl of soup without asking questions. His tone had become livelier, warmer, but there was a subtle tremor in his eyes, as if he were preparing to return to a dream from which he had been banished.

Lan Qiren closed his eyes. Not out of tiredness. But because he didn't want to see. He didn't want to look at Lan Wangji's face, nor Wei Wuxian's, nor the curve of Lan Xichen's shoulders that bent slightly when he laughed, as if each time it was an act of courage. He didn't want to see how close they had gotten, how much they were looking for each other, how much they were trying to stay. Because if he had looked at them, he would have had to admit that he had missed them. 

The pavilion had emptied, but the air had not become light again. It remained suspended, as if it had absorbed too many words, too many pent-up silences. Lan Qiren remained seated at the now empty table, his hands at his sides, the goatee he had been smoothing with an automatic gesture now motionless. The closed eyes were not rest, they were closed for defense. Because the silence of the rules, nor the composure of the years, were no longer enough to calm what had stirred inside him at the sight of those faces, those voices that he thought he had learned to tolerate, but which instead continued to hurt, in ways he had not foreseen.  Lan Qirne could still hear Wei Wuxian's low laugh, just before he left, and the echo of that warm tone he had reserved for Lan Xichen. A voice that didn't seek permission, didn't ask for approval. He had returned to his sect as if he'd never left. As if the years weren't filled with blood, exile, loss. As if he could truly return. And maybe he could, maybe everyone could. Everyone except him.

Slowly, Lan Qiren opened his eyes, but did not look. He let his gaze wander across the wood grain on the table, where the damp stains of cups emptied too quickly still remained. The edges were slightly dark, marked by time and use, like everything in that pavilion: no apparent cracks, yet everything spoke of a silent wear and tear. Even him. Even his flesh. Even his voice, now thin as the paper that separated that place from the wind.

The shoulders, straight out of habit, had relaxed a few degrees. But it was enough. It was enough to make him feel how tired he was. Not just of the role, but of having to remain still while everything around moved like water on stone, smoothing everything, changing everything, digging inside. Everything in that room had been said in courteous tones, with that grace that only ancient wounds can generate, but he had felt the knot beneath the surface. He had seen the looks, sensed the invisible threads that still tied Lan Xichen to Nie Mingjue, Lan Wangji to Wei Wuxian, and all of them to a past that never stopped biting.

Lan Qiren, on the other hand, remained faithful to the principle, like an ideogram engraved in stone. But no one reads stone anymore. No one questions the laws anymore except to bend them, reinterpret them, or traverse them. Wei Wuxian did it with the lightness of someone who knows the abyss and has made it his home. That laugh, that "Lan Zhan..." whispered as if the name were a sweet delicacy, had pierced him more than any accusation. Because it was true, as true as the laughter Lan Qiren had never allowed himself. 

Lan Qiren wondered, at that moment, whether Jiang Cheng would truly drive Wei Wuxian away or whether, like him, he would find himself staring at him, not knowing where to place him in his heart. He wondered what it meant, today, to be righteous. Whether justice was truly the straight line he had followed all his life, or whether it was becoming something more like a curve, a spiral, a twist that led them all to meet again, increasingly different, increasingly less ready. The wind came in through a crack, barely lifting the flaps of a tent. He rang a little bell hanging from a beam, a faint, melancholy sound that reminded him of winter, when Gusu was covered in snow and everything seemed bearable because it was still. But now the snow had melted. Water dripped from the gutters and soaked the stones. And there he was, trapped between what he had been and what he was being asked to accept.  

He would have written to Jiang Cheng. He would have kept his word. But a part of him, the most secret, the one that didn't speak even in his moments of meditation. He wanted to stay there, in the silence, in the iced tea, in the still-fresh footprints left by those who had just left. Just to feel once more, for one more moment, what it feels like to be a spectator of change, when you are no longer capable of guiding it. 

Lan Qiren stared at the cup in front of him for a long moment, the tea still untouched, the mirror-smooth surface reflecting nothing but the shadow that weighed on his chest. A gesture, a step forward, would have been enough. He wanted to hold him, Lan Xichen. Feeling him sag against her shoulder, bending over in tears as only returning children do. He wanted to whisper welcome back, as one whispers to a season after waiting. Welcome back, as they say, to spring after a long, torrid winter that cracked the earth and dried everything out. But instead, he remained there, motionless. Watching from afar. 

The tea was still there, cold and left untouched. A stagnant lake in a too-white porcelain cup. Lan Qiren hadn't drunk it in ages he couldn't count, but he hadn't moved. His hands resting on the table were still, the fingers barely clenched, as if they were still holding something, or as if they had lost, for a moment, the memory of how a body that yearns moves. He had seen him. Xichen. He had crossed the threshold like a shadow broken by the sun, and in his eyes there was no pride, no shame: only a tired pain, which he carried around like a cloak too heavy. And there was disorder. In the hair, in the clothes, in the steps. He had entered without ceremony, without warning, without the strength to play the part that for years he had worn like a second skin. Lan Qiren looked at it and heard something break. Not in him—no, he was too rigid to allow himself to break— in the air, in that time that until recently had stubbornly maintained habits. 

And he had seen him, Lan Xichen crying silently, his face pressed against Nie Mingjue's broad chest, his hands clutching the fabric, like a lost child who had found the only place to fall. Lan Qiren hadn't said a word. He had only felt a tear slide down his face, without being able to stop it. That was all he'd been capable of. And now Lan Qiren hated himself for what he had felt. For that fierce grip around the heart that was not just pain, but something darker, more shameful: envy. Not for Nie Mingjue, but for that confidence, for that naturalness, for the freedom that Xichen seemed to find everywhere except in him. 

He stood up and ignored the mess left on the table, everything around him seemed suspended in the pale afternoon sun that filtered through the paper panels, touching the floor with thin, warm fingers, like weightless caressing hands. He walked slowly toward the desk, each step measured so as not to give in to the shaking of his knees. He sat down, picked up the paper, and let the brush sink into the ink without thinking. He had to write. He had to inform Jiang Cheng. He had to do what had to be done. 

But his hand was shaking, and his heart swelled with a joy that hurt. Because he had seen him, Lan Xichen. He had seen him return. Not as the leader of his generation, not as an irreproachable model, but as a broken man returning home with his clothes disheveled, his hair loose, and his eyes full of lost time. And Lan Qiren couldn't blame him. He couldn't. Because that mess was familiar. It was the same mess as when Xichen was a child, and he used to run through the grass with Nie Mingjue when they were younger, with his sleeves rolled up and his face reddened by the sun, until he fell and grazed his knee. And then he would arrive with Nie Mingjue, with a frown on his face and Xichen holding his hand, who would bring him back to him with a guilty expression. Lan Qiren was waiting for them, sitting in the same spot where he was now, ready to scold them. But he never really did it, not like he was supposed to.  

Every memory came back to him with a blinding sweetness, a caress that was both consuming and paralyzing, yet he tried not to think about it, to push away that grip with the rigidity he had become accustomed to. There was no time for those feelings, for that fragility that seemed to betray everything she had believed in until that moment. He had duties, heavy and unavoidable, and Lan Xichen had others, of his own and equally urgent. But Lan Qiren wondered how he could ever look him in the eyes again, those tired and betrayed eyes, those eyes that had seen in him not a refuge, but an unbridgeable distance. Every time his mind wandered to that question, a knot would tighten in his chest, cold and implacable, and Lan Qiren tried desperately not to think about it, to push that thought away like a dark cloud threatening to overturn his apparent calm. 

Lan Qirne shook his head forcefully, as if to shake off an insistent shadow, a weight that had taken root in his thoughts. Those thoughts had to be pushed away, rejected; There had never been time for his feelings, never space for that fragility that now pressed insistently in his chest. Duty had always come first, relentless and stern, like an invisible chain that bound him to that desk, anchoring him with the coldness of discipline to a role he could not afford to abandon.

His legs, however, betrayed that determination: trembling, ready to move, to spring towards the door, to cross that threshold to look for Lan Xichen and hold him in an embrace that reason forbade. But those arms, his, had always been different: empty of warmth, carved in stone, rigid and immobile like cold slabs, incapable of bending to the sweetness of a touch, imprisoned in a form that could not transform into an embrace. Their harshness was a reflection of everything he had always tried to repress inside himself, a shell of loneliness and resolve that seemed to leave no room for tenderness. Yet, beneath that granite surface, something was cracking, slowly, subtly, but inevitably. Lan Qiren tore up the tear-soaked paper. He crumpled it between trembling fingers and took out a new sheet. The brush dropped again, but the writing became uncertain, the lines broken by a breathing that struggled to remain calm. The tears kept flowing. They no longer had his approval, but neither did they have his opposition. 

Lan Qiren continued to write, even though he hated himself for that gesture that failed to achieve the only comfort he desired. His hands traced words on the paper while inside, like an endless tumult, the pain grew more acute. He had seen Lan Xichen held tightly in Nie Mingjue's arms, and the sight had been like looking into a world he no longer belonged to, a scene etched within him with the cruelty of a rebuke. That world did not call him, did not run towards him, did not bend to recognize him. And he remained motionless, staring with dull eyes, without moving a step, without letting a word escape his lips like a fragile bridge to the past. His lips seemed sewn by an invisible hand, sealed to keep out that affection he knew only how to repress, an affection that, with every breath, became rarer, more distant.   

Because Lan Qiren knew, deep down, that he should be that refuge, that safe haven in the chaos of the storm. He, the shoulder to cry on, the fixed point that does not waver. Not only in duties and rules, but in the heart, where distances are measured with the delicacy of a hug. He should have known how to open his arms, to welcome without fear, but instead he had taught Lan Xichen to stand up straight, to hold back his tears, to bear the weight of silence and solitude. It had taught him to be alone, and now that Lan Xichen returned—worn, undone, broken—he sought refuge elsewhere,because in those stone arms Lan Xichen had never found rest. It was a truth that cut like an invisible blade inside Lan Qiren, leaving him a prisoner of voiceless regret.

Lan Qiren hated himself for it, for his inability to fill that void, but he kept writing. Even as tears clouded his vision, he did not stop, because his duties came before all those feelings that had marked his heart with indelible scars. And so, as the afternoon slipped gently through the window, bringing with it the distant scent of jasmine and the soft song of birds, Lan Qiren lost himself in writing, a fragile and necessary anchor in the turbulent sea of his torments.

Chapter Text

"I'm so afraid of you it's quite the tragedy
I don't remember how it got this bad
I know it's killing me, killing me"

The sun rose high over Lotus Pier, and with it the absence of shadow grew, as if space left him no refuge. Jiang Cheng paced back and forth across the worn wood, his hands clasped behind his back, each step punctuated by a breath that couldn't find its rhythm. He tried to maintain control, but every heartbeat seemed to betray him. He knew that the boat would arrive at any moment, and with it Lan Qiren, Lan Xichen, Nie Mingjue… and Wei Wuxian. Just thinking about it sent a shiver through his skin, as if a blade of icy water had slid over it, thin and inevitable.

It was a shiver that did not come from the wind or from anticipation, but from a depth that did not want to be explored. Every time he let that image take shape—Wei Wuxian's face reappearing after years, after the temple, after all—it was like throwing a stone into the pond of his memory: the water trembled, the ripples widened, and nothing within him found peace anymore. Maybe he didn't want to name that feeling, or maybe he couldn't, because naming it would have been like acknowledging a monster he preferred to keep buried. It was enough for him to feel it flow over his skin, cold and insistent, like rain that wets even the hardest stones, and to know that it would not evaporate quickly. 

For him, Wei Wuxian had always been like a stone thrown into water. A gesture, a look, a word was enough, and the smooth surface of his calm would shatter. The pond before him was the perfect measure of what he felt: the waves parted at the slightest touch, spreading in circles that crashed against the edges, and even when the surface seemed to return to calm, he knew that at the bottom there remained movement, something that never truly calmed. Wei Wuxian was the disturbance and the current, the weight that sinks and the air that drags upwards. A thought struck him like a sudden blow, leaving his stomach tightened in a knot that wouldn't unravel. What would it be like to look at that face again? That face he knew better than his own, that had once been his refuge and mirror, and which had now transformed into a foreign land, full of fractures. Stranger, yes. So foreign that it seemed to belong to another life, yet so familiar that it still lived in his bones, in the memories he couldn't erase.

It was like wondering what it would feel like to return to an abandoned house: every corner familiar, every smell recognizable, yet the dust a reminder that he had no longer lived there, that those rooms no longer belonged to him. Wei Wuxian had been that house, alive, noisy, full of contradictions; and Jiang Cheng had closed the door with his own hands, believing he was protecting himself. Now he feared that reopening it would only mean finding himself faced with rubble and silence.

The knot in his stomach felt harder than metal, as if he'd swallowed something he couldn't digest. To look again at that face—which had once been the closest, the most familiar, the most loved and hated at the same time—meant to stand before the mirror of everything he had failed to save. Wei Wuxian had been like the summer rain, which falls without asking permission: sometimes a gift, sometimes a ruin. And he, Jiang Cheng, had found himself loving him and cursing him in the same breath, like a man gripping a blade in his bare hand, knowing it will cut him but unable to let go.

He still remembered the day he had to announce to the world that Wei Wuxian no longer belonged to the Jiang Sect. The words had come out of his mouth like stones, cold and immovable, and yet inside he had felt small, infinitely small. Not as a sect leader, not as a brother, not as a man. Just like an ant, scurrying across the earth to avoid being crushed, helpless before a world it cannot stop. Maybe even less than that. Because at least an ant retains its instincts, knows where to go, finds its colony. He, on the other hand, had been unable to protect anything: not the name of his sect, not the bonds that had raised him, not the brother he had loved and hated with equal intensity.

And now, the thought of meeting those eyes again made him falter. In them he would see everything he had been, but also everything he had failed to be. He remembered the nights they had shared wine under the stars, or the tearful silences they had never had the courage to name. Looking at him meant facing that anger that couldn't be calmed, because deep down it kept pointing the finger at him. Because it was easier to accuse Wei Wuxian than to admit that perhaps the real fault was his, that perhaps he had never been strong enough to keep him close, to save him. Blaming him meant avoiding the mirror. How could he look him in the face again, when every glance would remind him that he had failed, that he hadn't been enough to keep him by his side? Blaming Wei Wuxian was easier than blaming himself. Because if he had admitted his guilt, then he would have been nothing more than that: an ant who had thought he could hold up the world, and who instead had let everything collapse.

Jiang Cheng felt the knot in his stomach tighten, and the pond before him seemed to reflect every tiny vibration of the heart he tried to hide. The waves trembled, light and delicate on the surface, like unspoken caresses, yet beneath them there was a vortex, a hidden movement that never stopped, like repressed feelings that refused to remain silent, as he thought of having to see Lan Xichen again.

With Lan Xichen, it had never been easy; not a simple pebble to be moved, but an entire current that could submerge him without warning. The thought of his arrival stirred the deep waters of his mind like a storm that leaves no escape, as if the wreckage buried in the mud was in danger of resurfacing. And Jiang Cheng didn't want to look him in the face, didn't want to wonder what still lay down there, rotting in the dark water of memory. Better to stay on the surface. Better to pretend the pier was just wood underfoot and not the point where his calm threatened to break.

There was no need for looks or words; Jiang Cheng's heart already knew it, and despite his pride and anger, a silent desire trembled between his ribs, a secret that he never allowed himself to reveal, hidden like wreckage buried in the mud, ready to resurface at the slightest touch, at the slightest caress of the wind or the other's footsteps. Every breath, every slight movement of his hands, every fold of Xichen's tunic was enough to make that internal water he had thought he had buried tremble. It was a storm he couldn't name, a secret call that forced him to stand, to observe, and at the same time wish to collapse among those invisible waves that no one could see.

Jiang Cheng felt a shiver run down his spine, a silent tremor that seemed to move with the water of the pier, as if the entire world were standing still to watch him. He couldn't remember when it all started: was it a cruel twist of fate or simply his fate? That secret, so fragile and urgent, lay buried next to the sandalwood-scented letters, between the folds of his dried tears. Every attempt to burn that weight with an incense stick seemed futile: the flame rose and fell, the smoke vanished, yet the knot under his ribs remained, thick, throbbing, as if it were breathing on its own.

Jiang Cheng stared at the approaching boat as if he could fit it all in his chest, but the more he looked, the more his heart sank. The slowness of his advance was not calm: it was a deliberate torture, a suspended time that forced him to feel every heartbeat, every breath as a judgment. The white tunics glistened against the sun like snow that would never melt, pure and unassailable, and he felt in that innocence a weight tightening around his throat.  Jiang Cheng felt the knot in his stomach tighten like a rope twisting his ribs. The gray tunic advanced alongside the other tunics on the boat like a flat wave in a windless sea, a day that had ceased to promise light and warmth, and in that grayness there was everything he had forgotten to savor: the colors of the world, the emotions that were perceptible like warm rays of sunshine, the pulse of life he no longer dared to recognize. It was an empty backdrop for someone else to paint on, and he had no brushes, no hands capable of imprinting marks.

Then the black and the red, as if they were the flames burning his dreams, the nightmares moving before him, too far away to grasp, too close to ignore. The red tunic slipped through the waves like blood that could not be washed away, and the black was the shadow of the memories that still haunted him, the fear and anger trapped inside. Every color, every movement was a small betrayal of his heart, forcing him to feel what he had buried: the affection he dared not admit, the pain of not having been enough, the nostalgia for what he had lost. Jiang Cheng realized that the distance between him and that boat wasn't just physical: it was an abyss between what he had dared to face and what he still feared to recognize in himself.

Jiang Cheng stopped completely, the nervous pace that had accompanied him like an internal drum instantly dying away, leaving only the dull thump in his ribs. He adjusted his purple tunic with measured gestures, trying to recall the control of the sect leader, that authority that had always been a shield and which now seemed too thin to contain everything that vibrated within him. The boat was only seconds away from being fully docked, and the slow motion of the water reflected his apprehension, as if each ripple was a reminder of the knot in his stomach tightening within him. 

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to make room for calm within the folds of memories, the fears he had tried to ignore for years. He knew they were not there just for reasons of resentful energy and inexplicable phenomena, but Wei Wuxian and Lan Xichen carried with them a burden of presences, of memories, of what the heart knew and the reason denied. When he opened his eyes again, the boat was docked, and the world was reduced to that surface of wet wood and the orderly movement of his guests' footsteps. He couldn't take his eyes off Wei Wuxian, yet he had to ignore him, he had to bow, exchange courtesies, and lead the four of them into the central hall of the Lotus Pier, while inside he felt every beat of his heart like an echo ricocheting between the past, anger, and a love he had never been able to name. 

Jiang Cheng leaned back on the lotus-shaped throne, his hands clasped firmly over his carved arms, and for a moment let the space around him speak for him: the metal creaked slightly under his weight, the air was warm and heavy with the smell of incense, and the silent footsteps of the disciples outside echoed like a background of expectation. Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren moved with their usual measured pace, positioning themselves on the left side of the corridor, every gesture calibrated, every breath measured, as if their very presence were a declaration of order and harmony. Nie Mingjue, followed by Wei Wuxian, sat down on the right, the former with confidence and the latter with a slight hesitation, as if every step had to be calculated between respect and fear of breaking something. 

Once everyone was settled, Jiang Cheng spoke, his voice firm and sharp, recounting the strange happenings west of Yunmeng: rumors of villagers swearing they saw silhouettes of people where there were none, of ponds changing color in the moonlight, laughter echoing beneath trees without any presence. He tried to keep his voice dry, but tension vibrated in the air. He concluded with the most disturbing words: “Many say they see someone dressed in white, with blood stains along the tunic, but no one can see his face. The only person who saw his face has disappeared.” His words hung suspended between them, like a shadow lengthening on the surface of calm water, and for a moment neither of them really breathed, each holding onto a different thought, a different fear, a different memory.

Silence fell like a heavy veil over the room, dense and almost tangible, every breath seemed amplified, every little noise like a slap in the face to the quiet. Lan Xichen inclined his head slightly, looking at the throne and Jiang Cheng's stiffly clenched hands. Lan Qiren stood still beside him, his face impassive but his gaze betraying a curiosity and anxiety beneath those measured gestures. Nie Mingjue clenched his fists for a moment, then let them fall to his knees, as if holding back a storm inside him, and Wei Wuxian couldn't keep still: he fidgeted with his fingers, smoothed his sleeves, cast furtive glances at the others, while his heart beat with a rhythm he himself struggled to decipher.

The silence wasn't just waiting: it was a place where everyone's memories, guilt, and fears mingled, and for a moment the room became a crossroads of unspoken stories, of unacknowledged bonds, of suspended affections, and the only certainty was the need to act, even if no one truly knew what would come next.The silence wasn't just waiting: it was a place where everyone's memories, guilt, and fears mingled, and for a moment the room became a crossroads of unspoken stories, of unacknowledged bonds, of suspended affections, and the only certainty was the need to act, even if no one truly knew what would come next.

Jiang Cheng rose slightly from his throne, his hands resting on the carved wood, and began to speak in a firm but tense voice, enunciating the points of the matter: the witnesses, the strange apparitions, the color of the water changing under the moonlight, the disembodied noises. Lan Xichen remained still, his gaze fixed on Jiang Cheng, recording every word as if it were a map to understand what was really happening, while his heart beat faster with a sense of responsibility and, perhaps, something deeper that he didn't want to admit even to himself. 

Lan Xichen stood still, his eyes fixed on Jiang Cheng, as if trying to decipher every crease in his face, every line of tension or authority. He was a sharp beauty, elegant as ever, yet time and distance had woven a veil of estrangement between them. Looking at it was like approaching a rose laden with dew and thorns: each closer step promised fragrance and warmth, but also the risk of injury. Jiang Cheng's every gesture, every firmly spoken word, resonated within Lan Xichen with a mixture of nostalgia and fear, an ancient call that vibrated like taut strings. 

Every word Jiang Cheng said, every question Lan Qiren asked as it crossed the room, insinuated itself into Lan Xichen's soul like the wind through the leaves, light and sharp at the same time, reminding him how distant and close at the same time was that man he had known as a brother in battle, guardian of rules and of unspoken affections. He lowered his gaze for a moment, as if to protect himself from the pain running down his temples and clenched his fists under his tunic. It had been years, perhaps an eternity, since he had crossed paths with Jiang Cheng so closely, so powerful, so capable of making him sigh and bleed in the same heartbeat.

Lan Xichen's heart stopped like a broken pendulum every time their eyes met, a missed beat that left behind a cold, viscous void, like stagnant water in a pond under the moon. Every glance from Jiang Cheng was an invisible thread pulling the string of his guilt, a silent reminder of the lotus-scented letters and the confessions never uttered, like shadows that creep between the cracks of memory and refuse to leave. The peonies that Lan Xichen had chosen, symbol of what the heart still hoped to give and receive, bent in the wind of his regrets without managing to cover the lotus flowers that grew stubbornly inside him, roots that intertwined with the scars of the soul, resisting time, pain, guilt.

Those inner lotuses were silent warriors, and every time Lan Xichen saw them sprout, he felt the weight of the undeserved, the impossibility of accepting sweetness without feeling like a betrayal of himself, like someone who tastes too bitter water hoping to find sugar. Even breathing became an act of contradiction: every breath was sweet and bitter at the same time, and the entire world seemed to oscillate between what had been and what could never be, leaving Lan Xichen suspended in an eternal midnight of the heart, among wet peonies and unwilting lotuses.

Lan Xichen felt Jiang Cheng as an impossible call, his siren, the unattainable lotus that oscillated between memories and the present, between what he had dared to love and what he had lost. Every glance from Jiang Cheng was a wave crashing against the barriers Lan Xichen had built around his heart: powerful, sharp, inevitable. Every missed heartbeat was a small shipwreck, every breath an attempt to float between nostalgia and guilt, between the choices made and the desire to reconnect threads that had broken. The tears that would flow down his face like a river wetting peonies, a sweet and bitter scent at the same time, the memory of a beauty that hurt because he could not possess it, because it was steeped in what he had lost.

Every thought of Jiang Cheng was a slow, incessant tide that dragged with it the regret of every unsaid word, every missed embrace, every look he could never recover. Lan Xichen felt suspended in that vortex: the lotus inside him remained intact, rooted firmly in his innocence and guilt, while above it floated the wet peonies, fragile witnesses of a love he could no longer touch without feeling the weight of loss and the passage of time.

Lan Xichen remained there, sitting, his body anchored to the floor but his mind floating between memories and the present. He looked at Jiang Cheng like someone observing a statue of light and shadow, a solitary lotus in its pond, whose beauty could awaken ghosts he thought buried, memories of a time when love seemed possible, untainted by betrayal or fear. The middens that once smelled of peonies now carried a bittersweet weight, an aroma that tasted of what might have been and wasn't. It was a slow, lingering pain, a constant back-and-forth between desire and resignation, between Jiang Cheng's call and the knowledge that certain things remain forever out of reach, like a light that illuminates without warming, like a flower that smells fragrant but cannot be picked.

And yet, in that moment, a small smile escaped him, timid and fragile, a sign of gratitude for the other's very presence, even if life had not granted them better circumstances. “If only the past didn’t exist, or could be changed… I would have come to you that night,” he thought, the voice of his soul caught between regret and hope. Perhaps he should have settled for the lotus, savoring its simplicity and calm, instead of dwelling on peonies, so seductive and dangerous that they had tied him to a near-deadly addiction. The peony, with its sumptuous petals and intoxicating scent, appeared perfect and irresistible, but it hid invisible thorns, poisonous only because they were too beautiful. “How beautiful, how toxic,” thought Lan Xichen, feeling the bitterness rising like a slow wave crashing against his heart, reminding him that what attracts is not always what can nourish.

But now there were other duties, other realities to face; and so Lan Xichen let the pain flow in silence, like tears that the wind of time carried away noiselessly, returning his gaze to Jiang Cheng, who had returned to sit on the massive throne, motionless and solemn like a lotus in its lake, eternal and distant, yet incredibly present.

Chapter Text

"My love
Isn't all that I thought it was
Am I no one without someone to need me?"

The days at Lotus Pier began to flow like slow threads of water, each identical to the next, filled with a tension that no one dared to name. The research, the discussions, the site inspections: it all seemed like an attempt to grasp the smoke with one's hands. There were no answers, only faint tracks, footprints that vanished before they could even be followed. Lan Qiren, methodical and stern as ever, questioned the locals with Nie Mingjue at his side, his firm voice trying to bring order to a disorder that defied all logic. Meanwhile, Lan Xichen, Wei Wuxian, and Jiang Cheng moved from one place to another, through rice fields and canals, observing every shadow, every reflection on the murky water, every blade of grass moved by the wind.

Lotus Pier, during the day, still retained a semblance of quiet: the water lapping against the posts, the sweetish scent of the lotus plants, the distant singing of the merchants. But all it took was for the sun to set behind the hills for everything to change. The shadows lengthened like curious fingers, and an unnatural silence fell over the waters. Villagers closed their doors, lanterns were extinguished more quickly than usual, and the air filled with that ancient fear that creeps into villages when the world ceases to seem trustworthy.

Lan Xichen walked behind Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian, letting their voices mix with the rustling of the wind. He still felt the tension of the day they had arrived, the same tension that was now intertwined with the suspended sensations of an investigation that seemed more like a pilgrimage within themselves than an external search. Every step was a return, every silence a thought trying not to be heard. And as the days passed, the boundaries between the visible and invisible worlds seemed to become thinner, as if the waters of Lotus Pier held not only shadows, but also memories that no one had yet dared to truly look at.

Lan Xichen advanced at a measured pace, feeling every breath of the lake like a whisper across his skin. The air was thick with the damp, musky smells of stagnant water and wet wood groaning underfoot, yet the vibration she felt was different: subtle, electric, like a thread stretched between the real world and something she couldn't name. The rush of the water against the banks seemed to modulate an almost sinister rhythm, and the shadows cast by the pier's pilings stretched and bent like invisible hands trying to grasp it.

Every little movement, the rustle of clothes, the step of a foot on damp wood, the very beating of his heart, was amplified in the silence, bouncing around in Lan Xichen's mind like an echo that wouldn't stop speaking. It was a living silence, full of memories and omens, and he felt suspended within it: between the fear of what might be hidden beneath the calm surface of the lake and the curiosity that drove him forward, as if every step were a secret dialogue between him and the invisible presence that seemed to follow them. 

Night, though not yet fully fallen, caressed his neck with a cold wind, bringing with it a scent of mystery that smelled of the past and of secrets still unrevealed. Every fiber of his body was tense, yet his mind forced him to see, feel, distinguish, because the truth, even if hidden, was there, in that air that vibrated between the real and the unreal, ready to reveal itself only to those who dared to stay awake.

Wei Wuxian walked beside Jiang Cheng, gesturing with a certain confidence, promising that he sensed no trace of resentful energy, while his eyes betrayed an amused shiver that he couldn't entirely contain. Lan Xichen sensed the contradiction: his companion's apparent calm, Jiang Cheng's stiffness, and the tremor of something in the air that none of those present could name, but which insinuated itself between them like an invisible thread, ready to weave memories, fears, and suspicions into a web more complex than words could explain. 

The lake's water, dark and silent, reflected the moon like a distorted mirror, and in that surface Lan Xichen sensed a call that was both threat and promise, like a ghost of past memories haunting before his eyes.Every fiber of his body was tense, yet his mind forced him to see, feel, distinguish, because the truth, even if hidden, was there, in that air that vibrated between the real and the unreal, ready to reveal itself only to those who dared to stay awake.  Lan Xichen inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of his breath as if it carried within it all the accumulated thoughts and memories. It wasn't the fatigue of his muscles that tired him, but the pressure of every repressed emotion, the tumult of memories that mixed with the present, preventing him from fully concentrating on what he had to observe. 

Every step towards the lake was a small effort of will, yet the mind kept returning to the letter he had found that morning, lying on a bed of white anemones and Amaryllis belladonna, the flowers that carried with them a sweet and melancholic scent at the same time. Lan Xichen felt that sweetness and melancholy creep like a thin thread down his spine, a shiver that tasted of honey and ash at the same time, sweet and poisonous at the same time, like a love that had forgotten to rest on the right lips and was now slipping inside him without permission, leaving a hot, stinging void. Every word of the letter seemed to vibrate within him like invisible strings, more powerful than the meaning it contained, because it contained an echo of times he could no longer touch, a ghost of failed gestures and unspoken promises. 

It was like feeling a distant lover breathing beside him, knowing he could no longer be touched, and sensing that all that remained was a shadow of what might have been, a presence made of memory and regret, enveloping him and leaving him both alive and broken, suspended between desire and the awareness of his own unworthiness. 

The rice paper gave off a delicate yet penetrating lotus scent, and his eyes, almost against his will, rose to the figure of Jiang Cheng: the body draped in purple robes, the movements measured, every gesture a reflection of authority and control. Lan Xichen felt his heart sink, and for a moment, time seemed to slow down, as if the entire world had converged around that image, leaving him suspended between what had been, what he feared to face, and what he still longed to understand.  And as he walked behind Jiang Cheng, every step was a silent reminder of that regret: a love that still beat in his heart, but that he didn't feel he deserved, that left him suspended between the memory and the awareness that certain things couldn't be recovered. 

Lan Xichen moved through those days like a silent guest, invisible but aware of every detail, every gesture he could not touch, every word he could not say. Lan Xichen walked through the corridors of the pier like a guest alien to his own heart. He was no longer the Lan Xichen lost in Jiang Cheng's enchantment, the one who melted at the slightest movement of his hair, who felt the heat of his skin under the midday sun and imagined him kisses landing on his ribs, or the whispers he had never dared utter. No, he was an observer forced to stay out of the heat. 

Trapped in the awareness of every detail that once set his heart alight. The sect leader's baldness, the way his muscles tensed under his purple robe, even Jiang Cheng's breathing as he spoke to the others felt like little spikes piercing him, because none of this could be his. 

Now he was just a guest, relegated to the sidelines, forced to measure every breath and every step as if he were treading on invisible glass, and the agony of this distance was deeper and sharper than all the others. Each fleeting glance from Jiang Cheng was like a flame that burned without consuming him, a silent reminder of what he could no longer have, and Lan Xichen felt his heart tighten with the knowledge that, even in that moment of physical closeness, he was separated from the warmth that had once belonged to him. Jiang Cheng's presence became a bittersweet music, an incessant call he couldn't follow, a caress that left a mark but not an embrace.

Jiang Cheng's every gesture, every word, every silence became a reminder of what Lan Xichen could not claim, and his presence there, so close yet so far away, was an agony more intense than any he had endured during his isolation: a torment that could not be appeased by time or space, a living wound that pulsed to the rhythm of a love that was meant to remain hidden.

Lan Xichen walked behind Jiang Cheng, his pace measured but his heart pounding, as memories flooded in like a raging river. Jiang Cheng's every move seemed to take him back to days when time stood still amid laughter, confidences, and shared silences, when letters were more than words on paper, they were thin threads that secretly tied their worlds together. A silent reminder of days when time seemed suspended, suspended between the rustling of leaves and the shared breath of nights too long to be forgotten.

The letters, once simple messages, now appeared like pieces of a fragile mosaic: invisible threads that wove their worlds together, binding them delicately and painfully, suspended between what had been and what could no longer be. Lan Xichen could smell the subtle scent of paper soaked in lotus, felt the words like whispers creeping into his flesh, and every breath Jiang Cheng took before him was an echo of all the unspoken promises, all the held-back emotions.Now the letter on her bed, the same thin paper that for years had perfumed his room at night, intertwined with the scent of flowers and memories. It forced him to relive everything he had repressed: the anxious wait, his heart burning with every line, the hope of reading what only Jiang Cheng could whisper to him wordlessly. 

The present mingled with memories, and Lan Xichen walked through a labyrinth of nostalgia, where every step was both relief and punishment, a coming closer and a moving further away from the heart that continued to burn silently within him. Lan Xichen continued walking like someone munching on red camellias without a care in the world, a bold, almost sacrilegious gesture, like laughing in the face of fate while everything around seemed to be holding its breath. 

Each bite was a fragment of memory, a memory both sweet and bitter, and the taste of the petals mingled with regret and nostalgia, leaving behind an aftertaste of loss and never-ending ardour. There was a fierce beauty in that gesture, tragic and stubborn: eating splendid flowers that already carried within them the fragility of life, as if each bite were an act of defiance against the pain he had gone through, against the love that had consumed him twice. In that suspended bubble, between past and present, Lan Xichen felt untouchable and vulnerable at the same time, suspended between grace and torture, a man who continued to live and die in the same breath.

Lan Xichen felt a knot in his stomach, the blood pounding in his temples as every detail became more vivid: the rustling of the leaves like a low drum, the humid air carrying the scent of the earth and nearby water, and that suspended tension that made his clothes and hair vibrate like taut strings. Jiang Cheng advanced slowly, sword in hand, his gaze as hard as tempered iron, and Lan Xichen felt that air of danger envelop them, almost as if to isolate them from the rest of the world. Wei Wuxian, flute drawn, shouted into the silence, his voice breaking the anticipation but not the fear, and Lan Xichen lowered his head a little, trying to gather his breath, feeling every muscle ready to react.

Then she appeared: a young woman, pale-faced and large-eyed, emerging from the branches, small and trembling like a candle in the wind. The thin hand that was raised seemed a fragile gesture of peace, as fragile as the quiet of the woods before a storm. Lan Xichen watched Jiang Cheng advance relentlessly, and felt a pang of uneasiness tighten around his heart, a tangle of fear and curiosity, as the girl's words trembled in the air: "Please, I don't want to do anything bad… I'll sleep here, I swear!" Each syllable fell like a drop of dew on the skin, and Lan Xichen felt the precariousness of that moment.

Lan Xichen watched the scene as if suspended between two worlds, the blink of an eye that had transported him from the rustling of the bush to the harshness of the lotus pier still leaving an echo in his senses. The young woman before them was like a cut flower, her pink and green clothes worn and torn like windswept petals, and her hair fell unevenly to the middle of her back, a tangle of curves and breaks that betrayed confusion and fear. Her expression was a fragile mosaic: large, lost eyes searching for an impossible horizon, lips compressed as if holding a breath too long, bound hands accentuating her helplessness. 

Lan Xichen felt every tiny tremor in her posture, the way she twisted slightly under Jiang Cheng's gaze, and in that moment every detail was amplified: the wood of the pier creaking under Jiang Cheng's frantic footsteps as he walked ahead of the woman, the smell of stagnant water mingling with the scent of salt and moss, the light wind lifting shreds of fabric and hair, as if the world itself was trying to bring her back to reality.

Sitting next to Lan Qiren, Lan Xichen felt the weight of every word that didn't reach his ears: every tense muscle, every controlled breath of those around them was an indication of waiting, a suspension of time where every emotion, fear, and fragment of regret seemed to pour into that small space between them and the young woman. His mind raced between memories, sensations, and anticipations, trying to read between the lines of fear and curiosity that the girl exuded, aware that every movement, every glance, was charged with invisible consequences and a subtle roar that only those who observed carefully could perceive. 

Lan Xichen walked quickly, then ran. Not toward anything, but away; from that room, from that voice that had pronounced the sentence, from that air thick with judgment and silence. His white robes moved like ghosts along the dock, and the water beneath him seemed to boil gently, as if he could feel the storm in his chest. Every step was a blow to the heart, and every breath a shard of glass.

He no longer knew where he was going, only that he had to go far away, from the weight of Jiang Cheng who spoke like a judge, from Lan Qiren who was silent like a mountain, and from himself, who no longer had the strength to bear either his own name or his own silence. It was too much. Too many voices, too many memories, too many broken loves.

Isolation had taught him silence, but not peace. Silence was merely the skin of pain: taut, thin, fragile. Below, the blood continued to pulse, stubbornly. He had believed that it was enough to close himself off from the world to purify himself, that it was enough to stop speaking to stop feeling. But the soul does not obey silence, it grows like a plant in the darkness, intertwining with its own regrets, blooming with thorns. The wounds had never healed. 

They had only learned to breathe with him, like shadows that lie next to the body and imitate its breathing. They had become part of his flesh, and now, as he ran along the pier, every heartbeat seemed to awaken them all, one by one. They burned, as if there was still fire inside—an ancient fire, which had never found peace, not even under the ashes of time. 

His heart had never been Jin Guangyao's. It had been a reflection in a broken mirror, an image that seemed whole only if you didn't look too closely, a sweet lie that could be drunk like poisoned wine. Lan Xichen had loved a shadow dressed in grace, a deception that tasted of redemption. He had drunk that lie like mulled wine on a winter's night, letting himself be lulled by its warmth while the poison slowly, silently, descended into his veins. He had loved the idea of being loved. He had longed for an embrace that didn't ask him to be pure, that didn't ask him to be Lan Xichen, the brother, the disciple, the model. He had believed he could heal in the name of duty, but duty was an altar where he had sacrificed his own hunger; that of being looked at, chosen, desired without guilt.  

And Jin Guangyao had been his mirage in the desert, that light that dances on the horizon when you are too tired to distinguish truth from illusion. He had had the color of water and the voice of comfort. He had spoken to him as one speaks to someone dying of thirst: with sweetness, with pity, with a promise. And Lan Xichen, blinded by the reflection, had believed that that promise could be enough for him to live.

It was a perfect deception, sculpted with the care of an artist who knows the human heart like a map of veins. Jin Guangyao hadn't lied to him entirely. He had only given him the truth in the form he could bear. He'd enveloped him in words like quenched thirst, letting him savor a shadow of love that was actually only disguised hunger.

Lan Xichen had been drinking, yes. He'd drunk until he'd forgotten the taste of water. Every gesture, every smile had been a drop that fell on his lips, and he had collected it as if it were rain in the desert. But it was just sand getting between his teeth, a bitter taste pretending to be sweet. He had continued to drink even when his throat burned, even when he had understood, too late , that that freshness was poison. 

Because there is a part of the soul that would rather die of deceptive beauty than survive in the truth. And Jin Guangyao was that beauty: cruel, shining, untouchable. A god built from the flesh of mortals and the ambition of fallen angels.

When the sand finally caved in on him, Lan Xichen hadn't screamed, because the scream wouldn't have shaken anything that was now shattered inside him. His soul bent and frayed, trembled like a broken mirror in the winter sun, reflecting fragments of himself that would never find their shape again. He had understood—or perhaps reality itself was teaching him—that thirst is never completely quenched: it remains, silent and invisible, ready to insinuate itself in the most banal gestures, in the most fleeting glances. It changes face, it dresses itself with guilt, regret, nostalgia. 

Today that torment was called remorse, a shadow that followed him with a slow, tireless step, and that reminded him of every word left unsaid, every hand left unclasped, every smile he hadn't had the courage to return. But once… once it had smelled like the lotus: delicate, pure, suspended between dream and memory, and now that fragrance was imbued with a painful absence, like the silence that remains when the wind carries away all the leaves of a flower garden.

Now, as he ran toward the farthest pier, Lan Xichen could smell the salty water mingling with the scent of the lotus. And for a moment, just for a moment, he thought it would be easier to just let himself fall into the water and stop feeling, even if just for a minute. Because, after all, the most terrible thing wasn't having loved the wrong man. It was knowing that he still stubbornly loved someone who had never stopped hurting him just to be alive.

To who had looked at him only once as if that single glance was enough to make him truly exist.

Lan Xichen collapsed almost to his knees, his breathing short and ragged as his heart continued to pound as if it wanted to escape from his chest. The tip of the pier swayed slightly beneath his feet, the old wood creaking under the weight of memories and emotions he could no longer contain. Tears streamed down his face like water pouring from a broken dam, and the salty taste burned his mouth, mixed with the feeling of emptiness and abandonment that ran through him.  Mixing with the salty wind of the lake that caressed his face, everything around seemed to stop, as if the world was holding its breath to watch him collapse and rise again at the same time. Then that step behind him, hurried and urgent, made him dizzy, hoping, perhaps, for an apparition that wasn't real.

When he turned around, he found only Lan Qiren's eyes, wide open, full of worry and silence, his lips slightly parted as if he wanted to speak but couldn't find the right words. Lan Xichen tried to smile, to reassure himself, to reassure him, but all that came out was a broken moan, a thin, trembling thread that betrayed the full weight of months of solitude, of regrets, and of the hidden love that had never stopped living, even if only in the shadow of his heart.

Lan Xichen trembled like a shard of glass suspended in water, every breath a weight, every tear a current dragging him down. When Lan Qiren wrapped his arms around him, it was as if time stood still around them: the wind blowing across the dock, the sound of the water lapping against the planks, even the sun reflecting off the water seemed to dim its light, as if to avoid disturbing that fragile moment. Lan Xichen tried to resist, to not appear so vulnerable, but every attempt was useless: his uncle's warmth, the firmness of that embrace, spoke of something beyond words, a refuge he didn't know he could still seek.

Lan Xichen felt the world collapse around him and at the same time he felt himself enveloped in a warmth he no longer remembered. Every tension accumulated over the years, every burden of guilt, every silence he had swallowed like poison, melted away in that moment, transformed into tears that flowed freely down his face. The cold wood of the floor against his knees was nothing compared to the sudden comfort of feeling held, protected, acknowledged. Lan Qiren did not scold him, did not speak to him of weakness or mistakes; there was only the solid and immutable presence of someone who had always kept watch, even when the other didn't deserve it.

Lan Xichen collapsed completely against his uncle's chest, feeling the rhythm of Lan Qiren's heart, a slow, steady drum that reminded him that he was not alone, that he never would be. The squeeze on his shoulders and head was an embrace that spoke louder than a thousand words: welcome, forgiveness, protection. And as the tears fell, Lan Xichen felt his body relax like a watered plant after years of drought, as if he could finally breathe without fear.

“It’s okay… Shufu is here,” Lan Qiren whispered, and those words sank into the deepest recesses of his heart, bringing forth a tear that was simultaneously relief, regret, and gratitude. Lan Xichen was fragile, small, lost, yet in that fragility he found the strength to exist again, to let himself go without masks, without defenses. The world outside continued to turn, responsibilities awaited, dangers loomed, but in that moment there was only the embrace, the warmth, and the certainty that, for the first time in too long, he was not alone.

Lan Xichen felt as if every year of loneliness, every unspoken word, every hidden tear had been compressed inside him like water beneath a glacier, ready to slide away violently as soon as the right weight was lifted. The moment Lan Qiren held him in his arms, that embrace wasn't just comfort. It was a collapse and a rebirth all at once. Every fiber of his body melted in his uncle's warmth, like wax falling on cold stones, yet, instead of burning, it found roots.

Lan Xichen felt every tear fall like ancient rivers that had carved canyons inside him for years, and every single breath was a return to something forgotten, to a time when pain was still eased by loving hands and kind words. Sitting in Lan Qiren's arms, the world around him—the stars twinkling in the sky, the moon casting a cold glow on the dock—became a distant, almost unreal place, as he rediscovered the safety of a time that was no more. 

Every beat of Shufu's heart recalled a lost time, like the sound of a bell ringing through the mists of an abandoned temple. Lan Xichen closed his eyes and became a child again, he returned to the scent of hot tea that hung in the air in Lan Qiren's quarters, to the rustle of white sleeves that combed his hair with fingers that, back then, he thought were indestructible.  Every gesture was a painful memory, Shufu's low voice telling him stories of ancestors and heroes, the way, as a child, he tried to imitate his uncle's composure and always failed, barely making him smile. Now, in that embrace, Lan Xichen trembled as before, but there was nothing left to prove. No rules, no duties, no names. Just two lives that had hurt each other, and that for a moment still recognized each other. 

The wood of the pier beneath them was cold, damp, and smelled of seaweed and distant sea. But in those arms, Lan Xichen felt the warmth of all the homes he had lost: Gusu, Lan Wangji's voice as a child, the sound of laughter he had forgotten. Everything came back, like water finding its way back to its source. And he understood, in that embrace, that he was crying not only for himself, but also for his uncle—for the man he had never known how to embrace, who had chosen to be rock when everything in him longed to be sea.  

Lan Qiren's hands trembled slightly on his back, as if he too was afraid of breaking that illusion. It was the first hug after a lifetime of holding back. Two generations of discipline, silence, reprimands, and distance, erased by a single breath. And in the soft sound of Lan Xichen's crying, there was forgiveness. There was the love that had never been spoken, but that had always remained there—hidden between a rule and a prayer, between a rebuke and an ungiven caress.

Shufu touched his hair, and for a moment, just for a moment, the world felt weightless.