Chapter Text
Lan Wangji awoke with the acrid taste of resentful energy on his tongue. It swelled in his lungs, suffocating. When he turned on his side, coughing black smoke, a bolt of lightning pain ricocheted up his spine. The intensity of it made him gasp and then choke again on the resentful energy.
Opening his eyes took more effort than he should have. His vision was blurry, as though waking from a long sleep.
Lan Wangji didn’t recognize his surroundings. That much he established immediately, even through the smoke and his own cloudy gaze. His mind, too, felt off-focus, groggy. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew he should not be here. But where else should he be?
He wondered briefly if he was drunk. The thought reminded him uncertainly of the cool press of ceramic against his lips, the sickly-sweet taste of wine lingering in his mouth. Delighted laughter rang through his mind, and a warm voice whispered his name: Lan Zhan, Lan Wangji, Hanguang-Jun.
But — when had that taken place? And with whom?
This did not feel like drunkenness. There was a peculiar heaviness to his being that he had never felt before, as though he were being weighed down, forced to occupy the space of his own body.
And when his soul and his body finally integrated, there was an unfathomable, shooting pain that radiated from his hips to his shoulders.
Lan Wangji must breathe. He must focus. But he could not do either. He closed his eyes.
His senses began clearing gradually as the resentful energy faded. The air was thick with the scent of blood, char, and incense. It reminded Lan Wangji of the battlefield, of the Wens, and a trickle of mingled dread and fear had him reaching instinctively for Bichen—
Bichen was not at his hip. Wangji, likewise, did not respond to Lan Wangji’s summons. The movement of his arms drew his attention to the robes he wore: ill-fitting, homespun, the color of loamy soil, unlike anything he’d ever worn before.
He raised his hand to his forehead and recoiled.
His missing ribbon, more than anything else, had Lan Wangji sitting up in alarm — and the excruciating lightning pain was there again, nearly knocking him senseless. He propped himself on his elbow, panting, and had to shut his eyes once more.
Lan Wangji would not have taken it off himself. And this pain in his back—
He remembered, suddenly, a whip. His whole body tensed as though in expectation of pain.
Coupled with the loss of his ribbon, Bichen, and Wangji…
Lan Wangji would surely remember if he’d been exiled from his sect. Yet that was the only scenario he could think of that would justify such losses. They would have been stripped from him as he’d been escorted to the edge of the Gusu border.
Impossible. Foolish.
Lan Wangji must be vigilant. He must remember what had happened before he awoke, and not jump to conclusions. Peeling his eyes open, he surveyed the room again with focused intent, willing the blurriness from his eyes, the lingering smoke from the room.
The walls were covered in talismans. Lan Wangji’s own name had been carved onto any remaining surface area with some sort of blunt instrument, the characters crude but confident. The ground around him was littered with ash made of paper and bone.
A demonic ritual. That much he could establish even without being able to clearly read the talismans. Further study determined it to be a summoning ritual, necromantic in nature, with Lan Wangji himself as the subject…
Lan Wangji flexed his jaw and crawled towards the door.
He had not died.
Whatever demonic cultivation this was, whether it was some plot of the Wens or a distorted vision caused by a demon, he wanted no further part of it.
But there was no denying the pain in his body was real enough. He could not even make it to the doorway without slumping to the ground halfway, his forehead pressed to the dirt.
He had not died.
Would Lan Wangji not remember such a thing? He observed the veins on the back of his hands, felt the rise and fall of his chest, pressed two fingers to his wrist and found his galloping pulse. No need to test if he bled: he could feel his robes beginning to stick to his back, slick and hot with blood. He tested his spiritual energy and found it drained. What little remained struggled to keep his body from deteriorating further.
Lan Wangji was alive. He was in control of his own body. Therefore, he had never died. To bring someone back completely from the dead was unheard of. Even Wei Ying had never managed it, and he was the founder of demonic cultivation; Wen Ning remained a fierce corpse, even if a sentient one –
Lan Wangji’s breath caught. It was though something in his mind unlocked, a door he had not remembered closing.
Wei Ying at Nightless City, Chenqing in hand, mouth curled into a brittle and cruel smile, a battle he could not win.
Death, everywhere.
Lan Wangji spiriting him away, feeding him energy for days. Wei Ying, barely conscious, screaming for him to get lost, eyes murky, scent sour with fear and anguish and loathing.
And then—
Lan Wangji’s own sect elders had arrived, demanding his loyalty. But it was not theirs to demand.
Lan Wangji had, for once, made the correct choice when it came to Wei Ying. Realizing this, his mind spiraled through the remaining memories with a serene detachment that bordered on numbness.
Thirty-three lashes, each a strike of lightning.
His brother begging him to denounce the Yiling Laozu; if Lan Wangji would only denounce him, only give him up, only surrender Wei Ying, he could offer Lan Wangji some reprieve.
Lan Wangji had not, and would not, and his brother had seen that knowledge in his eyes and wept.
Lan Wangji searched himself, but could not recall anything after the whipping. He had felt himself slip away, towards the end, into a quiet solitude.
He had been made to count.
The last number he remembered was twenty-eight.
Dragging his body outside took considerable time and nearly all his strength. Outside was morning, past sunrise, and a donkey, tethered to a tree. Lan Wangji and the donkey made eye contact.
“Excuse me.” His voice was gritty.
The donkey lowered its head without response, ears flattened, and continued to eat. By the time Lan Wangji had managed to reach it, it seemed to have accustomed itself to Lan Wangji’s presence and only flicked an ear in mild interest his way as he used its reins to haul himself up. The effort left him momentarily dizzy.
There was a note attached to the donkey’s saddle. He opened it.
Hanguang-Jun,
It has been thirteen years, and the cultivation world needs you.
- A friend