🌑 Chapter 1 – The Burial Mounds
The Burial Mounds were nothing like the legends painted them. People whispered of haunted spirits, cursed earth, and demons roaming at night. But standing there, Wei Wuxian thought the place looked… tired. The soil was barren and ashen, the air heavy with a faint, metallic tang, as though the earth itself had swallowed too much blood from wars past. Grass would not grow. The wind carried nothing but silence.
And yet, in the heart of that desolation, laughter rang. High-pitched, fragile, but real.
"Gege!" A small boy stumbled toward him, clutching a wooden toy rabbit. His face was thin from hunger, his robes patched and frayed, but his smile lit the gloom like a lantern.
Wei Wuxian caught him before he fell and ruffled his hair. "Slow down, A-Yuan. You'll trip and smash that little rabbit's head, and then you'll cry and blame me again."
The boy giggled, holding his toy tighter. "I won't! Uncle Wei lies."
"Uncle Wei never lies." Wei Wuxian pressed a hand to his chest dramatically, feigning offense. The child only laughed harder, his voice carrying over the lifeless mounds as if daring the ghosts to listen.
For a moment, Wei Wuxian let himself smile too.
But when he looked up, the smile faded. The children, the old, the remnants of the Wen clan—those who had survived the war but lost everything—were scattered across the ruined temple that now served as their shelter. Thin faces, gaunt bodies. Wen Qing tended to be sick with steady hands, though her eyes were always shadowed. Wen Ning moved quietly among them, carrying buckets of water as if he feared even his footsteps might disturb the silence.
They were alive, yes. But barely.
Wei Wuxian tightened his grip on A-Yuan's small hand. He had promised he would protect them. He had walked away from sects, from glory, from everything he once knew—because no one else would.
Still, sometimes… at night, when the winds howled like ghosts, he wondered if he had chosen right.
---
That evening, as the last faint light sank behind the jagged hills, Wei Wuxian sat atop a broken stone pillar, Chenqing resting in his lap. He lifted the flute to his lips and began to play. The melody was low, almost mournful, weaving through the still air, keeping the restless spirits at bay. It was his only offering: protection through sound.
The children huddled close together, soothed by the tune, their eyes drifting closed one by one. Wen Qing finally allowed herself to lean against a wall, exhaustion stealing her sharpness.
Wei Wuxian kept playing, even as his arms grew stiff, until silence wrapped the Burial Mounds once more.
Only then did he lower Chenqing, sighing softly. He rubbed his temples, trying to shake the fatigue. His dantian still ached from cultivation gone wrong; demonic energy never let him rest. But he bore it with his usual grin, because if he faltered—what hope would they have?
A faint crunch of gravel drew his attention. He stiffened. No one from outside dared step foot here… unless they wanted him dead.
"Wei Ying."
The voice was calm. Low. Unmistakable.
Wei Wuxian turned slowly. And there he was, standing in moonlight as if it clung to him—white robes unstained by dust, forehead ribbon gleaming faintly, expression carved from serenity itself.
"Lan Zhan."
Lan Wang ji.
Wei Wuxian blinked once, twice, then leaned back with an exaggerated grin. "What's this? Hanguang-jun himself, gracing my humble graveyard? Don't tell me Gusu's Cloud Recesses suddenly ran out of rules to copy and you came for some ghost stories."
Lan Wang ji said nothing. He stepped forward, silent as always, carrying a small bundle in his hand. Wei Wuxian tilted his head, curious.
The bundle was set on the stone before him. When Lan Wang ji unwrapped it, warm steam rose into the cold air—fresh buns, still soft, and a flask of medicinal broth.
Wei Wuxian froze for a fraction of a second before forcing a laugh. "Ah, so you've taken pity on a poor soul, have you? Look at this, A-Yuan will think it's his birthday."
Lan Wang ji met his eyes, unflinching. "Eat."
"Bossy as ever," Wei Wuxian muttered, though his fingers had already snatched a bun, tearing into it with unceremonious delight. The warmth spread through his body like fire in winter. He hadn't realized how cold his bones felt until that moment.
"Mn." Lan Wangji's gaze flicked to the boy curled nearby. "For the child."
Wei Wuxian softened. He broke the bun in half and tucked the bigger piece into A-Yuan's little hands. The boy stirred but did not wake, clutching it instinctively.
Silence settled again, the kind that stretched, fragile yet unbreakable. Wei Wuxian chewed slowly, watching Lan Wang ji from the corner of his eye. The man hadn't moved, hadn't even flinched at the dark miasma clinging to this cursed place.
"Lan Zhan…" Wei Wuxian began lightly, but something in his throat tightened. He swallowed it down. "Don't get too used to coming here. If people saw, they'd think you've fallen under my wicked spell."
Lan Wangji's gaze did not waver. "I fear nothing."
Wei Wuxian's laugh cracked, just barely. "Ah, that's the Lan Wang ji I know. Ice-cold, righteous, untouchable."
But when their eyes met, something flickered. Wei Wuxian looked away first.
He played with the edge of Chenqing, fingers tapping restlessly. For once, he had no joke, no easy words. He wanted to ask why—why Lan Wang ji kept coming, why he would risk his name, his sect, just to stand here in the shadows with him. But he didn't. He couldn't.
Instead, he leaned back on the stone and forced a grin. "Well then, since you're here, keep me company while I play. The ghosts might be jealous otherwise."
He lifted Chenqing again, the melody soft this time, not for protection but for comfort. The notes curled into the night like smoke.
And beside him, Lan Wang ji listened, still as the moon, as though this cursed land was not filled with death but with something worth protecting.
For the first time in weeks, Wei Wuxian's heart felt a little lighter.