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Wei Wuxian came back a different man.
Jiang Cheng knew this the way he knew his parents were dead, his home forever destroyed. It was a simple fact of life made bitter, twisted. It slipped under his skin and nestled there, once something familiar, now alien and cold. Hostile. With every breath, it made him less of himself.
For weeks, he knew only despair. Living was an effort. Losing his parents scraped him hollow. Losing his core emptied him of the rest. When he regained the latter, it was only to lose his brother, and losing his brother was like drawing half a breath, stumbling half a step, the heart beating half a beat. A dozen times a day, he would turn around only to find no one there, not a shadow, not even a whisper. It was a kind of absence that left him reeling, limping with the wrongness of it.
Then Wei Wuxian came back and his smile was cold. His eyes were dead. He had ghouls and corpses at his feet. He himself moved like a ghost. His light, the brightest, warmest light Jiang Cheng had ever touched, was gone.
But then he pulled Wei Wuxian into his arms and Jiang Cheng realised that he did not care. His brother was here, once again within his reach, and to him it was the only thing that mattered, the one that eclipsed everything else. Here, finally, was the other half of his breath. The other half of his step.
He was complete.
–
It wasn’t until later, after he had sliced Wen Zhuliu’s chest with his father’s sword, after he had wrecked Wen Chao’s misshapen limbs with his mother’s whip; it wasn’t until then that Jiang Cheng noticed how wrong they now fitted each other.
They came together and they tortured, murdered, butchered. The result was a mess that defied any description but what the worst horror could spawn. Not even Wen Ruohan could have recognised his son now. It should have horrified him, sickened him into the worst kind of penance—because this, all of this, was wrong.
It did not. Instead, Jiang Cheng took Wei Wuxian’s hand, his fingers slotting perfectly into the spaces in between—and he wondered: what do you call halves that fit each other in all the wrong ways?
–
“What happened to you?”
He only ever asked his brother once—at a wayside inn, the night after they had first killed together. Wei Wuxian, lying with his back turned to him in a too-narrow bed, did not answer.
Jiang Cheng never asked again.
–
The second time was a raid.
They came across an encampment on their way back to Chongyang. A group of cultivators had made their sojourn by the river for the night. The hour was late, the moon a pale sickle in the sky. Jiang Cheng didn’t need to see the colour of their robes or the flames on their sleeves to know why his blood hummed for retribution.
At his side, Wei Wuxian’s face was a mosaic of shadows, watching, waiting. When he finally spoke, he almost sounded like his old self, the same one that filled the troughs of Jiang Cheng’s memories.
Except he used to say, Let’s hunt some pheasants.
Now he said, “Let’s hunt some Wen dogs.”
Jiang Cheng felt the slow stretch of a smile on his lips. It felt good in all the wrong ways—but then again, Wei Wuxian was supposed to be one of two people left in this world who could still drag a smile out of him. Perhaps it was how it should feel, after so long without smiling.
The two nearest guards fell easily to his blade. They hadn’t even hit the ground when Wei Wuxian took them under his spell. Jiang Cheng felled two more; Wei Wuxian swept in. Jiang Cheng struck deeper; Wei Wuxian followed. By the time the rest of the camp shook awake, most of them would be fighting their own brethren.
Jiang Cheng found himself grinning, laughing, pleasure a dark twist in his soul. He had carried his rage for so long, keeping it alive and burning lest it cool into grief. Grief was slow, numbing. He had no use for grief. Rage, on the other hand, lent him strength. It steadied his hands and guided his aim. He felt its hum in his veins as he tore across the battlefield, Sandu slashing down anyone still standing, Zidian crackling through flesh and bones.
A sword skill was a dance; so his father had said once upon a time. Jiang Cheng had never understood it until tonight. With Wei Wuxian at his back, controlling the vicious corpses to protect him, Jiang Cheng could let himself go—and let go he did, spilling blood and lightning as the shrill notes danced and weaved around him. Together, they drenched the earth red and emptied the riverbank of the living.
Jiang Cheng was breathing hard when they were done. Blood dripped from his hands, from his face, from every wayward strand of his unravelling knot. He barely noticed any of it. Power still surged in his veins, making every muscle in his limbs hum. Until that moment, he had forgotten how it felt to be powerful. The feeling nearly reduced him to tears.
Wei Wuxian stood a few paces away, Wen corpses at his feet, shredded to bits. The flute in his hand glowed black in the moonlight. His eyes were a brilliant red that made him look strange (and terrifying), but then he turned, looking at Jiang Cheng, grinning, and that grin belonged to the boy Jiang Cheng had grown up with.
“At least they chose wisely,” he said, pushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. It came away stained, almost black. “Right next to the river.”
By the time they reached the water’s edge, Jiang Cheng was laughing so hard that he slipped and fell.
–
After the second came the third, and the third led to the fourth, the fifth, the sixth.
Before long, rumours spread. People talked. The name Twin Prides of Yunmeng became synonymous with revenge. Their exploits were spoken in whispers, in solemn nods, in undertones between travellers at firesides. They became known for their ruthlessness. Their speed. Their efficiency. After all, what need had they of an army if they could simply use the corpses of their enemies?
The world watched them with wary eyes but kept silent. What happened in Lotus Pier was slaughter. To avenge the death of one’s parents was only filial, or so they reasoned. Jiang Cheng knew better. The only reason why they had turned a blind eye to his rampage was because his enemy was the public enemy—and a dangerously powerful one at that. Against such odds, most could find it in them to be blind.
Wei Wuxian found it amusing, although it did not make him laugh. Instead, his lips curled into a contemptuous sneer that was fast becoming all too familiar.
“Of course they wouldn’t speak against it.” His voice was a drawl, mocking. They were drifting down the river on a boat, a sunset sky bleeding above them. It was not Yunmeng—the river was too narrow, the horizon too near—but it was close enough. Jiang Cheng could feel it in his bones, in the sedate current of the water. “Not now anyway. They still need this skill, damned and immoral and all.”
“One person did, actually,” Jiang Cheng admitted. He had just returned from a tactical conference in Langya, where everyone present tried very hard not to look him in the eye. “Speak against it. Very strongly too.”
Wei Wuxian raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Lan Wangji.”
“Ah.” His incredulity relaxed into a smirk. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Because it’s not a surprise. He’s had it in for you since day one.” Jiang Cheng paused, skimming past the more poisonous memories in his head. “But at least he said it in front of me.”
Wei Wuxian hummed but said nothing. Instead, he leaned back, sprawled across the deck with his eyes closed. Jiang Cheng found himself watching him. What he did not tell his brother was the whispers he had heard in passing, behind walls, between the shadows of towering trees. The kind of terror the name Wei Wuxian had become.
The Demon from Yiling, some had begun to call him. And they would not be wrong. Jiang Cheng had seen the kind of things his brother could do, and 'horrifying' was too tame a word to describe it.
Where they were wrong, however, was in thinking that Wei Wuxian was the only demon in the story.
–
Their next plan of action was a joint attack.
Their target, Shan city, was the eastern stronghold of the Wen sect and a gateway to Yunmeng. A group of Jin sect cultivators had arrived to join the attack, led by the heir himself. Another group, led by Lan Wangji, followed the day after.
Jiang Cheng was disposed to think well of both. Anyone who could help him secure another victory, gain another step toward Lotus Pier, was more than welcome in his book. But then Jin Zixuan accused Jiang Yanli of lying and Lan Wangji could not seem to stop arguing with Wei Wuxian about his unorthodox cultivation, and Jiang Cheng found himself reconsidering his opinion.
The former, at least, resolved itself quickly enough. The accusation hurt his sister, but it also put an end to her affection for Jin Zixuan—which, in Jiang Cheng’s opinion, was not exactly a loss. He, for one, would not mind going back to disliking Jin Zixuan as much as he pleased.
Lan Wangji was another matter entirely.
The first time he and Wei Wuxian went to battle together, they ended up in a screaming match. Their side suffered a large number of casualties, much more than usual. The atmosphere of the entire camp plummeted.
Jiang Cheng discovered the problem soon enough. Allowing himself to be separated from Wei Wuxian was one. Exposing Wei Wuxian to everyone else was another. His disciples were more or less used to Wei Wuxian’s methods, but other cultivators still saw a horde of corpses as the embodiment of their worst nightmares. Fear spread, followed by dark whispers and malicious talks.
In the centre of it all was Lan Wangji, who constantly found faults in Wei Wuxian’s cultivation path, pointing out its ills. Jiang Cheng had intervened at least a dozen times, but it was like trying to stem the tides. In return, the constant scrutiny only made Wei Wuxian worse. Instead of moderating himself, he flaunted his skills, raising more corpses, using flashier, more horrific methods—all to prick their delicate sensibilities, as he put it.
And, predictably enough, Lan Wangji confronted him.
“You were always proud, but never arrogant.”
Wei Wuxian scoffed. They had just finished a strategy discussion in which the majority of it was spent in one side goading the other. Jin Zixuan’s uncle had been particularly vocal, dropping sly remarks and hidden insults at intervals. Wei Wuxian took all in only to throw them back twice as sharp. That the meeting had not devolved into a sword fight was a miracle in itself.
“Are you going to say it’s because my way of life has corrupted my temperament?”
“Is there any other explanation?”
“Of course, the most obvious one.” Jiang Cheng, hidden behind a large, conveniently placed rock, didn’t need to look at his brother’s face to recognise his scorn. “Has it ever crossed your mind, Hanguang-jun, that perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think?”
“You don’t even notice, do you?” There was a shift in Lan Wangji’s voice. He sounded forlorn. “You don’t even notice that you’ve changed.”
Wei Wuxian was the one who turned around and walked away. Jiang Cheng did not wait until Lan Wangji too had left before going after his brother.
He found him by the river, scowling at the water. Wei Wuxian did not turn, not even when Jiang Cheng stood at his side, shoulder to shoulder.
“Sanctimonious bastard.”
There was a pause, and then Wei Wuxian let out a forceful laugh. “Pretty sure his parents were properly married before they had him. This is the Lan sect we’re talking about.”
“Sanctimonious asses then.”
It made Wei Wuxian laugh again, quieter, sadder. When he shifted, his head moved to rest on Jiang Cheng’s shoulder, a weight at once familiar and not. Jiang Cheng did not push him away. Instead, he lingered in the realisation that Wei Wuxian was the only person in the world who could touch him so freely—whom he would allow to touch him so freely.
“Do you think I’m terrible?” The question came softly, pressed against his robes.
Does he? Jiang Cheng wondered at that. He knew the things Wei Wuxian had done, but they were all tangled in his head, chock full of black vines of revenge. Perhaps the others, Lan Wangji, were right. He would pay someday—they would pay. For now, however, Jiang Cheng rested his head on top of Wei Wuxian’s and thought that he smelled of the earth and the sun. Of rebirth.
“I think,” he began slowly, frowning at the knot of words in his mouth. On his finger, Zidian crackled to life, lightning strands braided into a whip, curling around Wei Wuxian’s wrist. “I think Yunmeng Jiang has a chance because I have you.”
Wei Wuxian said nothing for a long time. He stared at Zidian, but his hand remained slack, safe in the cradle of Jiang Cheng’s lightning. No one else, Jiang Cheng realised, had ever trusted him this much. It was the kind of realisation that sank into his bones and stayed there.
When Wei Wuxian finally stirred, it was to slip his fingers between Jiang Cheng’s. The lightning went with him. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“You’re welcome,” Jiang Cheng answered. These were the kind of words that went both ways. You could not say it without having anyone on the other side, accepting it.
–
Wei Wuxian came back a different man.
Jiang Cheng knew this the way he knew his childhood had died. They no longer fit each other the way they had once, two brothers running through the fields of Yunmeng. The hand that held him now was different. Instead of calluses, there were scars all across Wei Wuxian’s palm, the work of a knife for countless blood sacrifice. Instead of a sword, he had a flute and ghouls and corpses.
But he was here, at Jiang Cheng’s side, and the right halves did not always make the right whole.
Sometimes, they made much more than that.
End