Chapter Text
Lan Jingyi is eight years old, and he’s in trouble.
This isn’t a new thing: he’s often in trouble for breaking some rule or other. It’s not even his fault most of the time. He can’t help it if he gets so lost in his own head, thinking about something Shifu said about the improper use of talismans or whatever, that he can’t answer a question when he’s called on. It’s so unfair, because he was thinking about something that Shifu thought was important a little while ago, right? He just hadn’t moved on, that’s all. Then he has to copy the sect rules for it.
At least his writing is getting better.
Other times it’s because he can’t keep his body still, no matter how hard he tries. He feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin, and everyone looks at him with a mixture of disgust and pity when he says that. Why can’t he just try, they ask. It’s like he doesn’t even care about developing his golden core properly, they say, shaking their heads. His parents would be so ashamed, were they alive. Jingyi hangs his head at that one. They probably would be. He tries so hard, and he would do better if he could, but it’s like he’s never good enough.
He doesn’t actually know what he did this time. He’s kneeling on the porch outside of Shifu’s meeting room, has been for twenty minutes now. The wood is hard beneath his knees, and he’s trying to stay still, but it’s more difficult than usual. At least no one is here to see his occasional wiggle.
A beetle crawls slowly across the wood, not far away. Jingyi watches it, wonders what its tiny feet would feel like crawling over his palm. He could probably lean over to pick it up without making any noise. He looks around: no one’s watching, so he does. The beetle is green and shiny, and its little feet tickle his skin. Its antennae wiggle, checking out this new surface it’s walking on. Jingyi wonders what the beetle is thinking, what’s happening in its tiny brain as it explores the palm of his hand. Bugs are cool, so weird and tiny, and so ugly they’re sort of cute. He forgets where he is for a moment, lost in his observations. A loud sound, like someone dropping something heavy inside the room, startles him out of his thoughts. He cups the beetle carefully in his hand and tries to listen.
The voices inside the room are both quiet and stern, in that way the elder Lans always argue. Shifu is speaking now, saying things Jingyi has heard more and more frequently of late, like “not able to control himself” and “cultivation isn’t a path for everyone.”
Jingyi’s stomach twists. He is trying, he really is. He tries so hard it’s exhausting. He wants to be a cultivator. He doesn’t know what else he could be. He has nowhere else to go, not since Popo died two years ago. He has no family left.
He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the words drifting out through the closed door.
“We must remember that he’s a child,” Zewu-jun says softly. “He may be learning more slowly than the others, but he’ll get there. He just needs time.”
There’s a scoffing sound, probably from Shifu.
Jingyi knows he’s slow. He’s slower than everyone in almost every way. But he’s not stupid, despite what the others say. When they’re learning sword forms, he picks them up quicker than anyone. And he digs in more deeply than the others when he’s really fascinated by a topic, learns it so well that no one can come close to him. They’ve usually moved on, though, and no one cares that he spent days working it all out.
“Would you permit me to work with him?” another voice asks, one it takes Jingyi a moment to recognize: Hanguang-jun.
“Wangji—“
“I’ve observed him. He may be struggling to control himself in some areas, but he shows great promise in others.”
The conversation goes quieter then, made of harsh whispers that Jingyi can only catch snatches of.
“—you—just because—“
“—too much like—“
“—clouding your judgment—“
Finally the voices grow quiet again. The door opens. Jingyi doesn’t dare look up, not even when a pair of white boots stop right in front of him.
“Lan Jingyi.”
He looks up to see Hanguang-jun watching him with his usual unreadable expression. Jingyi says nothing, just waits.
“When you’ve completed your punishment, come to the Jingshi.”
“Yes, Hanguang-jun.” Jingyi bows as properly as he can in this position, then watches as Hanguang-jun walks away.
Wow, the Jingshi? No one ever gets invited to the Jingshi, not that Jingyi’s ever heard of, anyway. He doesn’t know whether to be scared or excited.
“Lan Jingyi.” Shifu’s voice sounds even more tired than usual.
Jingyi stands, dusts off his knees, and goes in to receive his punishment.
+++
Where are we going?, Jingyi does not ask. He wants to, desperately, but he knows better than to pester Hanguang-jun with questions. He keeps his mouth closed and follows, trying very hard to keep his mind open and aware, as Hanguang-jun has taught him.
His classmates all gaped in astonishment when Hanguang-jun interrupted their morning lesson and said he needed to borrow Jingyi for the day. They’ve all noticed Hanguang-jun paying more attention to him lately, have whispered about the fact that Jingyi takes tea in the Jingshi at least once a week and often stays after lessons to work with Hanguang-jun one-on-one.
Jingyi knows they’re all jealous and that he should ignore their stares and whispers. They know better than to bully him about it, but it’s almost worse that they all keep their distance. He didn’t exactly have friends before, but now he’s even more alone.
Still, he’s grateful for Hanguang-jun’s attention and help. He’s doing better in his classes lately, and he doesn’t get in trouble nearly as often. Even Shifu seems impressed.
“Have you flown by sword before?” Hanguang-jun asks when they reach the road at the base of the mountain.
Jingyi shakes his head. He’s seen the older disciples practicing, but he hasn’t had the opportunity to try. The thought alone is thrilling.
Hanguang-jun unsheathes Bichen, and Jingyi can’t help gasping. He’s never seen this sword up this close before. It gleams like it’s made of light. Hanguang-jun mounts it in a smooth movement, then holds a hand out to Jingyi. Jingyi takes it and jumps, lets Hanguang-jun catch him and position him against his body.
They’re really going to fly! He wishes his jealous classmates could see this.
“Hold on tight,” Hanguang-jun says, and the sword carries them up, up, up.
It’s exhilarating, even better than Jingyi has ever imagined. He can’t help grinning as he looks out over the landscape. They’re so high off the ground and moving so fast, but Jingyi isn’t scared. How could he be, with Hanguang-jun’s big hand on his shoulder?
They fly for a long time, long enough that Jingyi starts to get sleepy. He still doesn’t know where they’re going or why. Hanguang-jun hadn’t said a word about that, had said nothing but a perfunctory “come with me” outside the classroom door.
At long last they fly lower, down toward a road leading into a bustling village. Hanguang-jun lifts Jingyi with one arm and leaps gracefully to the ground. Bichen is resheathed before Jingyi even gets his bearings.
“We’re going to meet a friend of mine.” Hanguang-jun pauses a moment, then turns to look at Jingyi. “He’s a cultivator, though not affiliated with any sect.”
Jingyi nods, tamps down on the gasp that threatens to slip out. A rogue cultivator! Jingyi’s never met a rogue cultivator before. He’s heard plenty of stories, has even read a few of the books that the older disciples passed down to the younger ones, but the idea of meeting one in person—Jingyi can hardly believe his luck.
Hanguang-jun starts walking down the road and Jingyi follows, his mind spinning with questions.
Hanguang-jun spends more time away from Cloud Recesses than he does on the mountain. The other young disciples whisper the rumors about where he goes and what he does. Sometimes the reports of his night hunts reach their ears. Jingyi’s pretty sure the details are greatly exaggerated by the time he hears them, but they’re exciting all the same. He’s been afraid to ask in these last couple of months when he’s had some of Hanguang-jun’s attention, so this glimpse into Hanguang-Jun’s adventurous life is an opportunity Jingyi is not going to waste.
He’s practically vibrating with excitement when they stop in front of an inn on the edge of town. Hanguang-jun turns to look expectantly at him. Jingyi immediately calms himself, straightens his posture, and holds himself as much like a proper Lan disciple as he can.
Hanguang-jun nods approvingly, a small smile teasing at the corners of his lips. Jingyi feels himself flush with pride.
The inn’s tavern is quiet and rustic, with less than a dozen rough-hewn tables scattered around the space. Only a few of them are occupied at this early hour. Hanguang-jun heads toward the far corner.
As they approach, a man seated at the table stands to greet them. This must be the rogue cultivator, Jingyi thinks, looking him over. He certainly looks like one: he’s dressed in black robes with touches of red, his flowing hair tied back in a perfunctory way, rather than in the elaborate styles Jingyi is used to seeing on his elders. The man’s smile is radiant, his eyes warm and friendly—and locked on Hanguang-jun.
“Lan Zhan,” he says, and Jingyi’s eyes widen before he can stop himself. He’s never heard anyone address Hanguang-jun so intimately. Not even Zewu-jun calls him that.
Jingyi looks up to see Hanguang-jun’s face open up into the closest approximation of a smile Jingyi has ever seen. He’s so stunned by it that it’s a moment before he realizes the rogue cultivator isn’t here alone.
Standing just behind him is a boy about Jingyi’s age. He’s dressed in simple robes of brown and red with his hair pulled back into a high ponytail. His eyes are wide at the sight of Jingyi, like he doesn’t see other children very often. Jingyi can’t help staring back at him. Hanguang-jun hadn’t said anything about a boy.
“Hanguang-jun,” the boy says, looking away from Jingyi. He steps forward and—to Jingyi’s astonishment—wraps his arms around Hanguang-jun’s waist and buries his face against his stomach. Even more unexpected is that Hanguang-jun hugs him back.
Jingyi can’t remember being hugged like that by anyone other than his grandmother, and he’d only seen her a couple of times a year. Hardly anyone has touched him in an affectionate way since she died—it’s just not done. The idea of Hanguang-jun hugging anyone, especially a child, would have been completely preposterous to Jingyi just a few minutes ago.
The boy looks up at Hanguang-jun, smiling warmly. Hanguang-jun cups a hand against his cheek and looks back at him so fondly that Jingyi feels a sharp pang of jealousy. He’s become used to the idea of being Hanguang-jun’s favorite in the last couple of months, and the idea that maybe he isn’t, that maybe this boy means more to him—it’s a little hard to accept.
“And who is this?” The rogue cultivator asks, turning his smile to Jingyi.
Hanguang-jun turns to look at Jingyi too, eyebrows raised slightly.
Jingyi bows as properly as he can. “Qianbei, this one is called Lan Jingyi.”
“It’s very nice to meet you, Jingyi.” The man gestures to the boy still wrapped around Hanguang-jun. “This is my son. You can call him A-Yuan.”
Jingyi nods and bows to A-Yuan, who looks flustered for a moment before stepping away from Hanguang-jun and bowing back. The two of them stare at each other.
A rogue cultivator’s son! Who knows Hanguang-jun! Jingyi’s mind is racing with questions he has no idea if he’ll get a chance to ask.
“Baba—“ A-Yuan says, turning to look at his father.
“Yes, of course,” the man says, reaching out to pat his cheek. “Don’t go too far, and check in every now and then. Hanguang-jun and I have much to discuss.”
A-Yuan smiles, then turns an expectant face to Hanguang-jun. Hanguang-jun slips a hand into his qiankun bag, then gives each of them money. Jingyi stares up at him in astonishment. He gets a small allowance like all the disciples do, but no one has ever just handed him money like this—not that he can recall.
“Aiya, Lan Zhan. You spoil him!” The rogue cultivator sighs and gives his son a stern look. “Don’t spend it all on sweets.”
“I won’t,” A-Yuan says, beaming at him. He turns to Jingyi and holds out a hand. “C’mon!”
Jingyi stares at his hand blankly. A-Yuan frowns at him, then takes Jingyi’s hand and pulls him across the room and out the door. The rogue cultivator’s laugh spills out behind them like water.
Jingyi squints in the bright sunlight. “Where are we going?”
“Anywhere we want,” A-Yuan replies. He’s still holding Jingyi’s hand. “This way.” He tugs Jingyi down the main road, to where Jingyi can see vendors setting up their stalls for the day.
They stop first at a vendor selling roasted peanuts. A-Yuan buys a portion and offers some to Jingyi.
“It’s Jingyi, right?”
Jingyi nods, chewing his peanuts. They taste a little different than the ones in Caiyi, but they’re good.
“Are you from Cloud Recesses? You dress like Hanguang-jun.” He’s looking at Jingyi’s forehead ribbon. Jingyi nods. A-Yuan hesitates for a moment, then asks, “Is Hanguang-jun your father?”
Jingyi huffs a laugh. “No! Hanguang-jun isn’t anyone’s father!”
A-Yuan’s face does something strange at that, almost like he wants to argue.
“I’ve lived in Cloud Recesses for as long as I can remember. Hanguang-jun definitely doesn’t have a wife or kids or anything. I’d know about it if he did.”
A-Yuan looks away, down the street to where there are more vendors plying their wares. “Do your parents live there too?”
“My parents are dead.” Jingyi reaches for more peanuts. “They died in the war when I was a baby. Killed by the Wens.”
“Oh,” A-Yuan says. He looks down into the peanut bag, his expression serious. “My parents died in the war too.”
Jingyi blinks at him. “But your father—”
“My first parents died,” A-Yuan says. “I don’t remember them at all. But then I got new parents.”
“You got new parents?” Jingyi’s mind is momentarily blown. He didn’t know that was possible. “Wow, you’re so lucky!”
A-Yuan brightens at that. “Yeah, I guess I am. Are you studying to be a cultivator with Hanguang-jun?”
Jingyi stands up a little straighter then. “Yes. I mean, I mostly study with the other disciples. But Hanguang-jun helps me a lot.”
“He’s helped me too. He and Baba are teaching me.”
“What sect do you study with?”
A-Yuan opens his mouth and closes it again. “I don’t belong to a sect. It’s just Baba, mostly.”
Jingyi shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense. You have to belong to a sect to be a cultivator. It’s the only way to learn it all.”
A-Yuan’s face falls and Jingyi’s insides freeze. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, he really hadn’t. He shoots off at the mouth sometimes and says things that hurt others’ feelings. He doesn’t mean to; he can’t help it. Everyone always says his mouth is quicker than his brain, and they laugh at him.
But now A-Yuan looks sad, and it’s Jingyi’s fault.
“I mean,” Jingyi says, reaching for his arm, “that’s how most people do it. But your father is a rogue cultivator, so he must know how to teach you. And if Hanguang-jun teaches you too, you’re so lucky. I’m the only one at Cloud Recesses that he teaches, and everyone is so jealous of me. They’d be jealous of you too.”
A-Yuan’s expression clears a little. “Sometimes I go to study at the Jiang sect, but just for a few days here and there. I don’t like to be gone from home so much.”
“Oh!” Jingyi’s definitely heard of the Jiang sect before. Last summer some cultivation students came from there to Cloud Recesses. They were older and Jingyi didn’t get to talk to them, but he remembers watching them practice sword forms. “You’re lucky to have so many teachers.”
A-Yuan smiles, his head a little higher now. “Hanguang-jun asked me if I wanted to come to Cloud Recesses last year, but I didn’t want to.”
Jingyi gasps. “Oh, I wish you would come! We could study together and play together and be best friends!” He winces immediately at that—why would he say something so stupid? A-Yuan probably wouldn’t want to be his friend. No one does, really.
“We could be best friends anyway,” A-Yuan says, smiling a little shyly now. “There aren’t any kids my age at—where I live. There are a few babies, but it’s just me otherwise.”
Jingyi doesn’t know what that would be like. He’s lived with a group of kids as long as he can remember. “Don’t you get lonely?”
“No, not really. I’ve got Baba, and so many aunts and uncles. There’s always someone who’ll take time to play with me, if I ask. Sometimes I play with kids in town, when someone takes me shopping there.”
“But you don’t have any friends?”
A-Yuan shrugs. “I guess not. Not really.”
“Me either,” Jingyi says, breathlessly. “The other kids don’t like me.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a lot. That’s what they say.”
A-Yuan takes his hand again. “I’ll be your friend.”
Jingyi feels a twinge in his chest, something that’s almost like excitement, but more, better. “I’ll be your friend too.”
“Want some sweets?”
“Yeah.”
“C’mon!” A-Yuan pulls him by the hand farther down the road.
They check in with the adults a few times, are made to sit and eat lunch at one point, but spend most of the day wandering around the town and talking. Jingyi can’t remember the last time he had this much fun. Fun isn’t really something he gets to have often, in any form. He doesn’t want this day to end.
It does end, though. The sun is low in the sky when they return to find A-Yuan’s father and Hanguang-jun waiting for them outside the inn. Jingyi and A-Yuan look at each other, matching forlorn expressions on their faces.
“I know,” the rogue cultivator says with a soft smile. He ruffles A-Yuan’s hair affectionately. “Come over here and we’ll say our goodbyes.”
They walk around to the side of the inn, into an alley. The rogue cultivator takes Hanguang-jun’s hand, then pulls a talisman from his sleeve with the other. He whirls it overhead with a flourish.
Jingyi and A-Yuan both turn away, looking out to the street.
“I don’t want to go home,” Jingyi says, kicking at the ground with the toe of his boot.
“Me either.” A-Yuan sighs. “Maybe Hanguang-jun will bring you next time he visits?”
“How often does he visit?”
“We see him about once a month. Sometimes he comes to the—to where we live, and sometimes we meet him somewhere. He and Baba night hunt together a lot, so those times I don’t get to come along.”
Jingyi files this information away for future reference. “If I’m extra good, maybe he’ll bring me again. In the meantime, we could write to each other?”
“Yes,” A-Yuan says, brightening. “I’ll write you as soon as we get home.”
They stare at each other for a moment. The alley is quiet now, as if they’re all alone. Jingyi doesn’t know where the adults went. A-Yuan looks at him for a long moment, then pulls Jingyi into a tight hug.
Jingyi goes completely still for several seconds before sliding his arms around A-Yuan to return it. He feels small in Jingyi’s arms, smaller than he looks, but he’s so warm and solid. He squeezes Jingyi tightly and tucks his chin over Jingyi’s shoulder. Jingyi doesn’t want to let go, ever. He wants to remember what this feels like.
There’s a soft sound behind them, and a chuckle.
“It’s time,” Hanguang-jun says, suddenly standing right at Jingyi’s shoulder.
Jingyi nods and reluctantly pulls away. A-Yuan hugs Hanguang-jun tightly then, pressing his face into his robes.
“Thank you for bringing Jingyi,” he says softly. “Can he come visit again? Please?”
“Please?” Jingyi repeats, stepping forward to stand next to A-Yuan. They both look up at him with big eyes.
Hanguang-jun looks momentarily stunned.
“How could we say no to these faces?” the rogue cultivator says, grinning. “Lan Zhan, you’re much too easy.”
Hanguang-jun turns to him, his expression fond. “We’ll see.”
A-Yuan hugs Jingyi one more time, then steps back to stand next to his father. His father is smiling at Hanguang-jun in a way that makes Jingyi think he doesn’t want the day to end either. Hanguang-jun nods once at him, then turns away. Jingyi waves at A-Yuan before he follows.
They’re both quiet as they walk down the road, heading toward the forest at the edge of town. Jingyi looks up at Hanguang-jun’s face. He looks lost in thought, maybe even a little sad.
As long as Jingyi has known Hanguang-jun, he’s been alone. Until today, Jingyi would have said he doesn’t have any friends, that he prefers his own company. Now Jingyi knows that’s not completely true. The rogue cultivator—whose name Jingyi realizes he doesn’t even know—is clearly Hanguang-jun’s best friend. It must be hard not to get to see each other very often. It must make Hanguang-jun feel so sad.
Jingyi reaches up and slides his hand into Hanguang-Jun’s. Hanguang-jun looks surprised for a moment, then squeezes Jingyi’s fingers. He doesn’t let go until they’re past the edge of town and ready to fly.
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