Chapter Text
At the edge of a distant province, where nameless roads wound through the hills before braiding into one another, a lonely inn lay hidden—so unremarkable it might escape even the keenest eye. Rarely did anyone pass through its doors, though it stood as the only rest stop for many li around. That was because it huddled on the outskirts of a small town, home to nothing more than struggling merchants, wanderers with no roof to call their own, and a handful of aging craftsmen whose skills were valued solely by the locals.
Now and then, weary travelers or those wishing to remain beyond the great sects' notice would pause beneath its sagging eaves. Yet no one stayed long, leaving behind little but a blur of fading faces.
The building itself seemed like a visual afterthought, half-finished and lopsided, as if whoever built it had simply stopped caring how it turned out. A crooked sign swung from a frayed rope tied to the beam above. The floorboards, brittle from age, creaked underfoot, and the windows, their paper yellowed, trembled at the faintest stir of wind.
On days like this, when a lingering downpour had turned the nearest paths into trickling streams, the smell of dampness clung to the walls, slipped through the wooden seams, and sank into every fold of cloth. Even by the hearth, where a few sodden logs spat and hissed in soft protest, there was no real warmth to be found. Only a dim flicker of light remained, barely enough to conjure comfort.
But the dining hall was far from empty. At one of the rough-hewn tables sat three broad-shouldered men, their faces flushed deep red from wine. Empty jars lay scattered across the table, alongside a few tipped-over cups still cradling the last drops of liquor. The air around the tipsy trio buzzed with chatter, swelling with every new jug, as strong drink is apt to do.
All three were undeniably alphas; the presence they exuded was thick and unruly, though lacking the sharp edge of rut. Had there been an omega downstairs, one would likely have felt considerable unease. Fortunately, the innkeeper himself carried the steady, grounded scent of a seasoned alpha, enough to keep things balanced so long as tempers stayed calm.
For betas, like the unassuming maid moving quietly through the hall, such disturbances registered as no more than background noise—faintly irritating, perhaps, but harmless.
The men were so engrossed in their conversation that none of them noticed the arrival of a new guest at the threshold. Which, in fairness, was entirely natural.
The cultivator in white robes embroidered with the crest of the Gusu Lan Sect did little to draw the eye, though his forehead ribbon marked him unmistakably as a member of the clan's main line.
He was not hiding, yet neither did he wish to be seen. With measured steps, he passed between the tables like a phantom and took a seat in the farthest corner by the wall, where the streaks of gloom slipping down from the ceiling beams pooled deepest, gently blurring his silhouette.
As he crossed the room, the acrid tang of unrestrained alpha scent hung in the air, interlaced with the sourness of wine and the must of soaked wood. Lan Wangji took it in without so much as a flicker of discomfort. He had long since learned to recognize scents, but did not let them affect him. Cultivators were taught to suppress their own pheromones and remain unmoved by anyone else's, mastering their instincts as part of spiritual training. Despite running contrary to nature, this discipline had been woven into him from childhood, both as a shield and a test of inner strength.
Lan Wangji cast his travel cloak onto the bench and gave a nod to the maid, whose apron bore the stains of long service. After a brief exchange, she turned and left to fulfill his request. Not much later, a brass tray was placed before the Second Jade. On it stood a teapot of pale tea that carried the subtle bitterness of wild herbs, and a bowl of plain rice, with a few simple vegetables scattered over it.
There was nothing remarkable in the taste, though it was familiar in a way Lan Zhan no longer thought to question. For a fleeting moment, something in it brushed against the memory of the one whose absence had drawn him so far from home. If he let his awareness drift from the room, he might almost hear the barest hint of a scoff followed by a theatrical complaint that it should have been spicier.
The atmosphere in the inn could hardly be called peaceful, with the noise at the neighboring table growing louder at an alarming pace. Lan Wangji had witnessed such scenes before. Sometimes, it took only a few cups of cheap alcohol for a careless word to spark fury and end in a violent brawl. Bichen, however, rested at the cultivator's side, silent and unassuming, for the true danger did not lie with the coarse-mannered trio nearby. It waited beyond the walls, in the storm raging outside.
The strength of Lan Zhan's golden core kept him steady, yet a persistent chill still crept beneath the collar of his hanfu, burrowing down toward the bone. He took a careful sip of the hot brew and turned his attention to the commotion building around him.
Laughter and the clatter of dishes mingled with low male voices, but it wasn't the noise itself that stood out; rather, the way they spoke. A thread of poorly veiled unease ran behind their animated chatter, the kind people often try to mask with mocking remarks when faced with things beyond the grasp of common folk.
“They're at it again,” the eldest murmured, glancing toward the door. “Talking about that child.”
“Which one?” The man across from him lifted a brow. “You mean the child from those stories?”
“The very same,” he replied with a nod. “The alpha who's supposed to be born at the end of the sixth month. Under that strange moon they call the Reversed One.”
“Reversed Moon…” echoed his slightly more sober companion. “Isn't it a sign of ill fortune? Not that I put stock in it, but I've heard the talk.”
“Tch. Like I've got the answers,” the first man grumbled into his cup. “Never could make heads or tails of the stars, but my mother says the clan lords must've dreamed it up to keep the rest of us in line.”
“Still, they say he'll grow strong enough to shake the heavens,” the second said, his tone betraying more than he intended.
“And rattle the earth while he's at it,” the third put in, with a dry laugh. “You believe that? Sounds like old wives' tales to me. Hah. Bet the sect lords are praying he comes with the right blood. Noble crest and all. Less trouble that way.”
The second man turned his cup slowly between his hands.
“Maybe,” he allowed. “But what if he's born in some nameless village? Or worse—among heretics?”
There was a pause. Then the first leaned in, lowering his voice further.
“No one knows for certain. Some claim he'll bear a mark… like a burn left by something nobody dares name.”
“Foolishness!” the skeptic scoffed again, though the weight in his voice said otherwise. For all his bravado before his companions, an uneasy chill had already taken root deep inside him.
Not a muscle moved in Lan Zhan's face, its pale, porcelain-like surface devoid of expression. He ate with quiet deliberation, his gaze never lifted from the modest meal before him.
In truth, the composure he wore was no more than a meticulously crafted façade, hiding a tightly drawn knot of emotion, held firmly in check.
There was nothing in the prophecy itself that stirred him, not even the idle curiosity others might have felt in his place. He was familiar with its general outline, but also knew for certain that the scroll containing the full text was kept by the leaders of the five great sects, passed from one to another under a strict vow of silence. Only his brother and a handful of carefully chosen elders of the clan had been entrusted with its entirety.
And yet a vague unease, once lodged at the back of his mind, now clawed at him from within. Yes, the sect's rules forbade indulging in speculation or the spreading of rumors, but in recent months, Lan Zhan had come to understand all too well that even the strictest of principles could not shield one from relentless evil, if it chose to plunge the world into chaos.
What if the secret in that grim omen unleashed a storm no realm could withstand? What if it set off a war far worse than the threat they'd all been steeling themselves against?
After finishing his meal, the cultivator placed his chopsticks neatly at the edge of the tray and pushed aside the teapot, which had long since gone cold. As he rose to leave, one of the men caught a glimpse of the departing figure in white and muttered something about “suspicious strangers,” but quickly moved on to another topic.
Dusk was slowly settling over the town, and with it, a clammy, biting mist began to creep through the narrow streets. As the hour of the dog drew near, Lan Wangji paid for his supper and requested a vacant room on the second floor, at the end of the corridor.
To his surprise, the interior of his temporary quarters bore scarcely any resemblance to the inn's weathered exterior. In the corner by the window stood a plain wooden bed, its frame bare but sturdy, topped with a thin mattress and a folded woolen blanket. Not far from it, on a low table, a dim oil lamp cast dancing shadows across the walls.
The space offered little in terms of comfort, though it was more welcoming than the hall below, thanks to a brazier where the last coals still glowed.
A short while later, the same maid who had been bustling about downstairs brought a basin of steaming water and a clean towel for the cultivator. Without a word, she set them down by the door and disappeared as quickly as she'd come.
He washed the road dust from his face, changed his clothes, and lay down on the narrow bed, unmoving, as night settled around him in a hush.
At dawn, he would set out once more in search of Wei Ying. But in three days, duty would call him back to the Cloud Recesses, and there was no way of knowing when—or if—another chance to leave would arise.
All he could do now was pray for his zhiji's safety… and never, not even in the darkest days, let go of the silent hope that sooner or later their paths would cross again.
Just before sleep finally drew Lan Wangji into its gentle depths, memory brought forth something warmer than any flame: the echo of a radiant smile and a bright, teasing “Lan Zhan,” spoken from lips that had long since become dear to him.