None of this feels real. Everything is rushing around him and yet all Xichen can focus on is the emptiness in his body. If his core is truly gone, then what does that mean for his immortality? He is still alive but the warmth that has sustained him for years, centuries, is snuffed out. Every breath he takes is fragile, as if his lungs have now turned into paper and each second tears his insides away.

Wen Ruohan may as well have killed him.

He grips onto the ground but he cannot even muster the strength to squeeze his hands into a tight fist. If it were not for Jiang Cheng, he would have collapsed again.

No one moves. Wen Ruohan, it seems, is content to simply watch him struggling. Besides him, Meng Yao stands rigid and still. In another life, Xichen thought he knew Meng Yao more than anyone—more than everyone. In another life, he had been a fool, and that has not changed at all.

What could Meng Yao gain from this? If Wen Ruohan is doing this for revenge, then there is no doubt that he would not spare Meng Yao. After all, it was him who had killed Wen Ruohan himself.

Does he know? Does he care?

Xichen digs his fingers into the ground and grits his teeth.

Does it matter? He looks towards Nie Mingjue; there is a puddle of blood around him from where he had been shot, but that is the least of the chief's concerns. Had it not been for the gun at Nie Huaisang's head, there is no doubt that Nie Mingjue would have wrung Wen Xu's neck with his bare hands by now.

Jiang Cheng's arms tighten around him. It is supposed to be comforting; instead, it burdens the weight that's already crushing Xichen.

He is the one who brought Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue here. He needs to get them out, along with Nie Huaisang, and Wangji, and Wei Wuxian. He cannot let anything happen to them—

The sound of the doors slamming open chases away Xichen's thoughts. His head snaps up, faced with the sight of several guards frantically running into the room.

Wen Ruohan throws them a displeased look. “What is it?”

One of them steps forward. His face is so pale that Xichen fears he will vomit on the spot. “S-Sir! It's Wen Chao!”

“What about him?”

The guard hesitates. “He's... He's fallen off the rooftop, sir,” he says, quickly looking away. “He's dead.”

At this, Wen Xu, who had remained as still as a statue for all this time, turns his head a fraction to stare at the guard.

Wen Ruohan raises his eyebrows. The guards wait with baited breaths, fearful of their leader's reaction.

They needn't be. The only emotion that flickers through his face is disappointment. He scoffs under his breath and shakes his head. “I knew he wouldn't have been able to handle it.”

A small frown makes its way onto Wen Xu's face. It is gone in less than a second; so quick that Xichen is convinced he imagined it.

Another guard steps forward. “W-What should we do—”

“Leave him.”

“But—”

“I said leave him. I'll deal with him later.” Wen Ruohan's eyes narrow. He jerks his head towards Xichen. “For now, seize them.”

Xichen could not even struggle even if he wanted to. He slumps forward as the guards tear Jiang Cheng away from him. The world spins with every sudden movement, making him feel as if he is drunk. In the background, he hears Nie Mingjue screaming numerous threats at Wen Ruohan. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend this is the past—but that was then and this is now. Back then, Meng Yao conspired behind Wen Ruohan's back and betrayed him. Now... Now, Xichen does not know Meng Yao.

You have never known him, he reminds himself.

“I must say this is easier than I thought it would be,” Wen Ruohan says. “I'm rather disappointed.”

The look on his face is anything but. Rather, he is elated. Xichen tries to even out his breathing but nothing will calm him, not when he sees Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue doing what they can to escape the guards.

They are all easily overpowered. It is hopeless.

“Leave them,” Xichen says. “Just take me instead. They don't remember anything.”

Wen Ruohan's laughter is loud and predictable. “Do you think I'll take orders from you?”

He has not changed at all. He is still the same man who is maddened by the power he had in his hands. Even without cultivation or an army at his disposal, Wen Ruohan looks at him as if he expects the world in exchange.

Xichen doesn't know what to do. In the past, he had a sect; he had support and men who could fight with him. In the past, he had Meng Yao, who risked his life to betray Wen Ruohan and put an end to this war. Now, he has nothing. He does not even have his golden core.

“What do you hope to achieve from this? All this for revenge?” Xichen asks.

The smile on Wen Ruohan's face disappears. “It is much more than that.”

“You didn't need to do this.”

“Oh, but I did.” Wen Ruohan rises from his seat. This room is nothing like the palace he used to live in, and these men are naught but frightened boys following a mad leader. Nevertheless, in that moment, Xichen blinks and sees a mirror image of the power-hungry leader Wen Ruohan once was. “There's a reason why I remember. I wasn't supposed to rest until I took back everything that was taken from me.”

No, Xichen thinks. Wen Ruohan has not changed because he refuses to. He is trying too hard to become someone he used to be—and that will never happen. He is no cultivator, and he is no sect leader. He is only human.

Maybe that is where the madness comes from in his eyes. It takes a certain amount of insanity to convince yourself you can take back the glory you had almost three thousand years ago.

Xichen averts his gaze away from the crazed man. Instead, he fixes it on Meng Yao and immediately regrets this. He can understand Wen Ruohan; he is as greedy as ever, but Meng Yao is a completely different story.

Noticing where Xichen is staring, an amused grumble comes from Wen Ruohan.

“Meng Yao's been so eager to reunite with you,” he says, nodding at the actor. “Haven't you?”

Meng Yao does not say a word.

“Meng Yao, tell me,” Wen Ruohan continues. “How did you die?”

Xichen flinches. As easily as that, he's thrown back to the worst moment of his life; the one memory that repeats in his dreams every night.

“He started a siege against me and killed me with his own hands,” Meng Yao answers.

After Xichen found Nie Mingjue's head in Meng Yao's—Jin Guangyao's treasure room, he could no longer deny the truth. Everything was laid out in front of him, and as much as he loved his sworn brother, he knew he could not live with himself if he ignored this.

And so, as Meng Yao said, he gathered the sects together to lay a siege on his most trusted friend. He had tried to reason with Jin Guangyao as a final act of mercy, clinging onto whatever remained of their friendship, but it was too late. Xichen only remembers looking into Jin Guangyao's eyes as his blade plunged deep into his chest; eyes full of shock and anger. Betrayal.

“I had no other choice,” Xichen says.

Meng Yao's silence cut deeper than he anticipates.

“You killed Mingjue-xiong. You killed Huaisang. You destroyed the Unclean Realm and killed so many innocent people along with it! I had no other choice!”

Even as Xichen's voice rises and cracks, Meng Yao's face remains impassive.

“How did you feel when you killed me?” he asks.

Xichen does not hesitate to answer. “I have lived in guilt for almost three thousand years. Every night, I'm reminded that I killed you, that I couldn't save Huaisang, that it was my fault Mingjue-xiong died. Every night, I see my hands covered in your blood.”

The slight twitch in Meng Yao's eyebrows is the only sign of his defences cracking. He is quick to look away, focusing his attention back on Wen Ruohan.

“Killing you will be a mercy then,” Wen Ruohan says. He nods at the men holding Jiang Cheng and Nie Mingjue.

In less than a second, both of them are shoved onto the ground. Xichen's heart drops as soon as the punches are thrown. He hears Jiang Cheng gasping when someone kicks him in the stomach, and the sight of him curling on his side is enough to get Xichen lurching forward. The men are ruthless; there are too many of them for the two policemen to fight back. Above the chaos, Nie Huaisang is begging Wen Ruohan to stop, but, of course, he never does.

Xichen has no strength left at all. He cannot even move a single muscle against the hold these guards have on him.

“Stop it!” he cries. He wants to look away and close his eyes but he can't do it. This is his fault. He's done this. He was too confident in his own immortality—and now it is gone as easily as that. Xichen is helpless. There is nothing that he can do but watch.

It is endless. The blood around them spreads until Xichen fears for the gunshot Nie Mingjue has received. He is losing far too much blood. He is not a cultivator; he cannot heal from this so easily. For a while, Jiang Cheng tries to retaliate. He succeeds in kicking someone in the face, knocking them far away from him—but it's not long until he's overpowered and pinned down.

“I don't remember this one being part of your trio,” Wen Ruohan muses. He nods at Jiang Cheng, who spits blood on the ground and glares up at him. Wen Ruohan grins back. “Are you dragging other people into your mess now?”

“Leave them,” Xichen says again. “Please, just take me.”

He knows it is useless to beg Wen Ruohan. The man has only ever listened to himself. Regardless, it is all Xichen can do.

He does not expect Wen Ruohan to listen. His dark eyes narrow, making his smile even more sinister than it already is. Slowly, he pulls out a gun from his suit jacket and strokes its ridges with a finger.

The hairs on the back of Xichen's neck rise. He does not flinch as Wen Ruohan points the gun straight at him.

Yet, he freezes when he moves it away, stopping its journey to aim at Jiang Cheng's head.

“Or... I could make you watch as I kill your friends in front of your eyes,” Wen Ruohan says.

In that moment, Xichen truly understands what it feels like to be human. He is frightened, and helpless, and desperate. He cannot bring himself to beg Wen Ruohan, too scared to make a single mistake. All he can do is stare at the gun in his hands, praying to whatever deity there is up there that he will not shoot.

Wen Ruohan's finger pulls the trigger, ever so slightly.

Meng Yao steps forward. “Let me.”

The fear is replaced by a sharp stab of hurt. Xichen clenches his jaw, watching as Meng Yao nods towards the gun.

“Let me,” he says again. “I need to do this.”

Wen Ruohan laughs, loud enough that it echoes through this room. He does not let go.

“After I'm done, you can do whatever you want with me. I only want to do this,” Meng Yao insists. He holds his hand out, waiting.

Still, Wen Ruohan does not move. The amusement in his dark eyes is gone, replaced by a cold glint. “I could kill you now, just as you did to me.”

Meng Yao takes a slow, deep breath. If Wen Ruohan's threat unnerves him, he does not show it. “I know an immortal much stronger than Wen Zhuliu. They have abilities that rival that of a god's.”

What? Another immortal?

“I could show you to them,” Meng Yao continues. “I only want this, but I know you want something more than just revenge.”

Xichen watches their exchange with frozen horror. He has not met many other immortals in the past. In order to survive, a lot of them have secluded themselves in isolated areas where humans cannot tread on. How does Meng Yao know this one? Why?

The change in Wen Ruohan's expression is immediate. In the end, his best interest is always himself; and that is what Meng Yao is offering him. A meeting with an immortal, to give him anything he has ever wanted.

Xichen does not know what is happening. He knows Meng Yao is a master at manipulating people—but what is he doing now? His hand is still outstretched for the gun, patiently awaiting Wen Ruohan's answer.

Wen Ruohan smirks. “Do you despise him that much?”

Although Meng Yao refuses to look at Xichen, the answer is clear. Yes. Yes, he must despise me, Xichen thinks. If only he could return the sentiment. For everything he had done in the past, Xichen could never bring himself to hate his former sworn brother. The guilt was too much.

At his silence, Wen Ruohan's smirks transform into the laughs that have mocked Xichen all evening. Finally, he hands the gun to Meng Yao. As soon as the weapon is in the actor's hands, Wen Ruohan nods at Wen Xu.

Silently, Wen Xu walks closer. His eyes are fixed on Meng Yao; a silent warning in case he does anything wrong.

For a long time, Meng Yao does not move. He stares down at the gun in his hands as a million thoughts run through Xichen's head. Does he hate me that much? Will he kill me? Is this it? Is this how it ends? It is only when Meng Yao looks up and meets his eyes do those thoughts calm down.

Even as the gun points straight at him, Xichen's pulse recedes. All of the emotions that run rampart inside him melt into one: acceptance. He has lived for thousands of years plagued by memories of Jin Guangyao; it is only fitting that he should be the one to end that.

The calm façade on Meng Yao's face breaks. He flinches, as if he can read Xichen's thoughts, as if they hurt him. For a second, Xichen wishes this was true. Part of him wishes the pain is mutual. Part of him wishes there is something in Meng Yao that does not completely hate him.

Then, the moment is gone. Meng Yao clenches his jaw and pulls the trigger.

 

- x -

 

As the sound of a bullet tears through the air, one memory reverberates in the back of Xichen's mind.

He is standing in a place far, far away from human civilisation, hidden beyond thick forests and towering mountains. Around him, the only sounds he hears are the whispers of the wind that ask him why he is here after all these years.

Xichen does not stop. He finds the secret passage that only cultivators are able to sense. Inside, a long, dark tunnel weaves into the unknown. He lights a torch and enters with a held breath, knowing exactly what waits for him down below.

The tunnel is endless. Xichen has plenty of time to be troubled by his thoughts. He allows them to torment his every step until he forces himself to walk faster, faster. He cannot do this, but he must.

At the end of the tunnel, he is faced with the exact image that has pained him in his nightmares for decades. Two coffins, sealed under the weight of this large mountain, never to see daylight ever again.

Inside them, his two sworn brothers sleep on.

After they found the remains of Nie Mingjue's body, they sealed him in a coffin similar to the one they kept Jin Guangyao in. Xichen had always found it cruel that his two sworn brothers, who had grown to despise each other, ended up with the same fate; sealed, side by side, for eternity.

He walks forward, staring between the silent coffins. It has been too long. Too, too long.

The years have passed and turned into decades, centuries. Cultivation has been forgotten, replaced with stories of legends and myths. The humans are naïve, but at peace. Xichen envies them.

Now, he is tired and alone. Now, he is the only left who can seal his brothers once more.

We must ensure the coffins remain sealed for eternity. If our sects fail to continue the ceremony, as an immortal, Zewu-Jun is tasked with continuing it.

Xichen had accepted the responsibility placed on him by the other sect leaders. He felt it was his duty. It was the least he could do.

Now, with the coffins of his brothers before him, he cannot do it.

It has been so long that the resentful energy is nothing but a tired presence. He places a hand on Nie Mingjue's coffin. Even the rage he felt is gone.

Blinking back the sting in his eyes, Xichen swallows the lump in his throat. He needs to seal these coffins again because it is his duty. As an immortal, as the last member of the Venerated Triad... He needs to do this.

He needs to, but he is too weak.

I am sorry, he thinks. He does not know who he is saying it to. His brothers? His elders? Himself?

In the end, he leaves without performing the sealing ceremony.

Deep under the depths of the mountain, there is nothing left of the two coffins but the thick stench of smoke and dirt. The torch lays abandoned on the ground, its fire snuffed out now that it had destroyed what was sealed there for centuries. Xichen has gathered the ashes left behind and allowed them to escape into the cool breeze, watching the last remnants of his brothers finally set free. As the ashes disappear before him, he stands alone there in that forest, wondering if he has done the right thing.

He cannot bring himself to regret it. Instead, he prays for the first time in decades. He prays Nie Mingjue and Jin Guangyao can finally be reborn into a life that would treat them kindly. He prays they will find peace.

Deep down, he prays the next time all three of them meet again, it is filled with happiness. He prays for a second chance, even though he knows he does not deserve it.

 

- x -

 

The bullet never comes. When Xichen opens his eyes, he is still in the same room. Alive.

Wen Ruohan is on the floor. A dark puddle of blood spreads from where his head lays.

He's... dead?

Xichen breathes out a shudder. He is in too much shock to register what has just happened. Around him, the guards tense. Their heads snap to Meng Yao, who is still holding the gun and staring at the corpse before him with wide eyes. All at once, the guards lunge for him.

There are more gunshots. Meng Yao stumbles back as the guards fall one by one—but it had not been him who had shot them. He holds onto the couch Wen Ruohan had once sat on, panting. As silence dawns in the room, all of them look towards the man who had killed all of the guards.

Wen Xu. He pushes aside Nie Huaisang, allowing him to fall on the floor with a surprised cry. He spares one glance at his father, still surrounded in a pool of his blood, and turns to Meng Yao.

He does not move. No one does.

What is going on? Why... Why did Meng Yao kill Wen Ruohan?

Xichen pushes himself up from the floor. His arms feel like jelly and he can barely muster the strength to rise.

Nie Huaisang is the first to speak. “Is... Is it done?”

Meng Yao is still holding onto the couch as if it is the only thing keeping him upright. He gives a stiff nod. “Yes.”

What?

“What the fuck... are you playing at?” Nie Mingjue's voice cracks the horrified silence. He rises to his feet, ignoring the bullet wound in his leg. Within seconds, he's diving for Meng Yao.

“Da-ge!” Nie Huaisang scrambles for him, putting himself between both men just in time. “It's okay! He's on our side!”

On... their side? Was Meng Yao acting all along? There are too many questions for Xichen to think properly. He looks at Meng Yao and wonders if all this is still an act. He can no longer tell where the deceptions end and the truth begins.

“Explain yourself!” Nie Mingjue demands.

Meng Yao sighs. “You have to understand... The only way to outsmart Wen Ruohan is to play along with his mindless games.”

“Play along? Play along? Innocent people have been hurt!”

For the first time tonight, emotions easily flicker onto Meng Yao's face. He narrows his eyes at Nie Mingjue and throws his hands out. “You don't understand! I trusted Wen Ruohan! He gave me everything that I have now! For all of his crimes, he was like a father to me!”

Xichen frowns at Wen Ruohan's limp body. Meng Yao, who had always wanted his father's approval, found that in someone like Wen Ruohan.

“But you remember,” Xichen says. You remember, and yet you didn't kill me.

Meng Yao turns to him, but he is quick to avert his eyes away. “Not at first,” he mutters. “I only started remembering when I saw your brother in the café. I... mistook him for you. In the back of my mind, I remembered your face from somewhere before. After that, it was like a feeling that wouldn't leave me alone.”

“That immortal you mentioned...”

“I was lying. I don't know any, but I knew that it was what Wen Ruohan wanted.” A bitter smile tugs up on Meng Yao's lips. “He... hasn't changed at all.”

Nie Mingjue shakes his head. His fists are white, trembling. If it were not for his younger brother holding him, he would have most likely strangled Meng Yao by now.

“That doesn't change the fact you've known about the attacks all along!” he accuses. “You knew he was hurting innocent people!”

“Yes, I did!” Meng Yao hisses. “I tried to justify and understand his reasons for the attacks, so I began to ask you about them. I thought maybe if there was a reason why he resented you so much then those attacks would make sense...” He trails off with another frustrated sigh. “It was naïve. I only realised his true intentions when I saw him react to Er-ge.”

Again, Meng Yao glances up at him. Xichen does not miss the fact he is still referring to him as Er-ge even now that his act is supposedly finished. He does not know what to think of this.

“By then, it was too late,” Meng Yao says. “I did what I could to try and turn things in my favour. I told Huaisang everything. I let Wen Ruohan think I was on his side.”

At the mention of his brother, Nie Mingjue turns to him. Nie Huaisang winces and refuses to meet his gaze. “You said my brother wouldn't get hurt. You promised.”

Meng Yao holds his head. He looks tired and drained out. Xichen would like to think it is not an act this time, though he does not know what to really believe in anymore.

“Better him getting hurt than being dead,” Meng Yao mutters.

“What about him?” Jiang Cheng asks, breaking his silence. He nods at Wen Xu, who has remained quiet all this time. “Was he in on this too?”

“I...” Meng Yao hesitates, as if carefully choosing his words. “Wen Xu had never done anything of his own accord. He was always following orders from his father.”

Wen Xu raises one eyebrow. “I could kill you all now.”

There is nothing on his face or in his voice to betray his emotion. Xichen does not know much about his original life, only that he heeded his father's orders and commanded an army to destroy homes. He enjoyed that; Xichen remembers the momentary satisfaction in his dark eyes as he watched the Cloud Recesses reduced to ashes.

Yet, now, there is nothing. No enjoyment, no anger; nothing.

“But you haven't,” Meng Yao answers. “And you won't.”

Wen Xu's lips press together.

“You just want this to be over,” Meng Yao tells him.

He receives no answer. Slowly, Wen Xu's gaze returns to his father. It is impossible to tell what could be occurring in his thoughts.

“It's over,” he says after a while. He looks away and throws aside his gun. It clatters on the ground, right next to Wen Ruohan's body. “Do what you like.”

Is it really over? Wen Ruohan is dead, again. Meng Yao had killed him—again.

Is it really so simple as that?

Xichen is lost in his own mind. He is only pulled away from them when Jiang Cheng returns to his side, helping him up to his feet. He asks if he is okay, and Xichen mutters a lie that he is. He wants to ask every question that is driving him insane. He wants to know. He needs to.

Silencing his thoughts, he grits his teeth and holds onto Jiang Cheng. Not now. Not now. He can hear Nie Mingjue calling his men, barking out orders into his phone. It is over. Wen Ruohan is dead. The questions can wait.

“I need to find my brother,” he says, remembering what the guards had said earlier. Wen Chao had fallen from the rooftop. Xichen can only hope that means Wangji and Wei Wuxian are safe.

Jiang Cheng links his arms around his shoulders, nodding. “I'll come with you.”

Xichen does not have the energy to argue against this. He allows Jiang Cheng to lead him out of the room.

Before he leaves, he feels Meng Yao's eyes lingering on his back. There are still a thousand things that needs to be said between them, and a cowardly part of Xichen thinks it is best to remain that way—but he knows that cannot happen. Not anymore. When everything is over, Xichen will speak with him. For closure. For the best.

 

- x -

 

Jiang Cheng just wants tonight to be over. The only way to keep his sanity throughout all this is to accept everything and ask no questions. All that matters is finding Wei Ying and dragging him back home. After that, they can worry about everything else.

He thinks about his sister back in America, hearing about the news that Wei Ying is missing. No, he can't let that happen. They will find Wei Ying again, safe and sound.

The rest of their police force have already arrived by the time Jiang Cheng and Xichen run through the casino. With Wen Ruohan's death and Wen Xu's surrender, the remaining gang members are quick to give up. There are some that try to fight back, clumsily and mostly out of stubborn fear. It's not long until the police apprehend them.

Dragging Xichen along, Jiang Cheng runs past all of them. His body aches from where those guards had hit him but Jiang Cheng grits his teeth through the pain and ignores the slightly dizziness in his head. He'll survive. He can't afford to waste any more time now.

As expected, there's wild-spread panic in the building. There are too many customers rushing to leave, pushing each other aside to escape the chaos. It's impossible to use the lifts at this rate.

“The stairs,” Xichen tells him.

“Will you be okay?” Jiang Cheng asks. They've only been running for a short while and Xichen already sounds like he's out of breath. He has no idea what that guy did to him; Jiang Cheng guesses that it can't be good.

Stubbornly, Xichen nods. “I will be fine. We need to hurry.”

They find a passage in the back of the building that's restricted from customers. It's small and dark, barely lit, but there's a long flight of stairs that leads to what Jiang Cheng can guess is the rooftop.

Xichen pushes himself off him. He grips onto the rails, looking up. “Let's go,” he urges.

As they run up this endless flight of stairs, Jiang Cheng thinks about what he needs to say to Wei Ying. Both of them have fought for so long that Jiang Cheng has ran out of insults and hurtful things to hide behind. With Wei Ying, it had always been easier to lash out and blame everything on him. It made sense to Jiang Cheng's mind. From the beginning, Wei Ying tore their family apart and barely gave him any closure to move on with his life. Jiang Cheng hated him.

He wanted to hate him. If he hated him, then maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.

With every step Jiang Cheng takes, he forces himself to finally get it through his head that he's been a coward all this time. Wei Ying didn't kill his parents, and Wei Ying never meant to push A-Jie down the stairs. Jiang Cheng was hurt—he's still hurt, but on top of everything else, he's just a coward with too much pride. He was angry, and hurt, and scared, and Wei Ying was the only one left to take the brunt of his emotions.

Jiang Cheng grips onto the rails. It might be too late for both of them to reconcile, but he wants his brother to be safe, at least. He'd hurt Wei Ying enough, just as Wei Ying had hurt him. The least both of them deserved was to go home, safe and free to live their lives.

They finally reach the end of the stairs. Xichen wobbles on his feet, his hand slipping from the rails. Before he falls forward, Jiang Cheng manages to steady him.

“Thank you,” Xichen mutters, his skin pale and hands shaking violently. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead.

Jiang Cheng grips him harder. He's never seen the older man like this. “What's wrong?”

Xichen shakes his head. “Nothing. Let's go.”

Stumbling forward, he slips out of Jiang Cheng's arms and opens the door. Immediately, a blast of cold wind from outside hits both of them. Jiang Cheng wraps his jacket around himself and steps out, looking around.

He stiffens. In the distance, he sees a lone figure kneeling by himself, his white clothes covered in what could only be blood. Xichen calls out his brother's name and runs off.

Jiang Cheng is quick to follow him. He runs past the limp body of the man who had attacked Xichen. His face is permanently frozen in a look of shock, and the bullet hole through his skull is the only answer of what happened to him.

He tears his eyes away, turning back to Xichen's brother.

As he gets closer, Jiang Cheng's steps slow down. There is a body in Lan Wangji's arms.

He stops.

He stops, and waits. He stares.

The body doesn't move. His eyes are closed and his clothes are wet with blood, gathered at the centre of his stomach. No matter how long Jiang Cheng waits or how much he stares, he doesn't move. He waits and waits, because this can't be happening—this can't be real—that can't be Wei Ying.

He takes a deep breath and finds that he can't. It comes out as a short gasp, and just as easily as that, his eyes are tearing up until the limp body in front of him blurs out of focus. Jiang Cheng furiously blinks his tears aside, shaking his head.

“He's...” He breathes again. “No. He... He's not...”

Lan Wangji looks up at him. Jiang Cheng waits for him to say something, anything.

No words come; instead, Lan Wangji wraps his arms tighter around Wei Ying.

Jiang Cheng clenches his fists. Wei Ying's head is limp. It's only now that he notices he's not breathing at all.

“He's not dead,” Jiang Cheng says, louder this time.

Lan Wangji flinches as if he's struck him.

Desperate, Jiang Cheng whirls to face Xichen but he's looking down on the ground, avoiding his gaze. The silence is nauseating. He turns back to Lan Wangji.

“Say something!” he demands. The crack in his voice is a switch that almost breaks him. Jiang Cheng shakes his head, still waiting for Wei Ying to wake up and laugh at them, tell them it's all a stupid, fucking joke.

He doesn't. He's pale and his eyes won't open. There is no rise and fall of his chest. He's as still as Jiang Cheng's parents were the night they died.

No.

Jiang Cheng takes one last look at Wei Ying's face and leaves. He can't—this can't happen—he needs to go—he can't—

He slams the door back close and runs down the stairs. He runs and runs. His feet slip and he has to grip onto the rails to stop himself from falling. Jiang Cheng collapses by the step, still gripping the rails.

Wei Ying can't be dead. He can't be. This isn't supposed to happen. They were meant to go home. They were meant to see their sister again, together.

Jiang Cheng's hands slip from the railings. He covers his mouth and holds back the tears threatening to slip out. This isn't real. This isn't happening. This isn't real.

He doesn't want to think, but he does. He remembers every conversation, every threat. He remembers Wei Ying's voice, how it had used to anger him to the point that he wanted nothing more than to punch him, hit him, hurt him just as much as he had.

For so many years, he's often wished Wei Ying died instead of his parents. Maybe, just maybe, if Wei Ying had never been part of their family, then Jiang Cheng would have lived a happier life.

He doesn't want that. He's never wanted that, not even when his parents died, or when A-Jie fell down those stairs. He doesn't want it now.

Wei Ying's face flashes in an argument they had several months ago.

You don't think I spend everyday wishing I died instead of your parents?

Jiang Cheng sucks in a deep breath. Before he knows it, he's punching the cement ground, ignoring the pain that erupts in his knuckles. He cries, and punches harder, again, and again, and again, until his fists are bleeding and his cheeks are wet with tears. He cries, because he remembers every threat he's thrown at Wei Ying—he's even told him he would kill him himself. Jiang Cheng screams and pounds at the ground.

He doesn't know when he stops and he doesn't know when his knuckles have broken. He leans his back against the rails of the stairs and finally lets everything out.

 

- x -

 

Wangji does not know how long he's remained here, and he does not know if he'll ever leave. In the corner of his eyes, he can see his brother standing in front of him, waiting—but what is he waiting for? Wangji does not know what to do, or where to go, or how to carry on after this. He can only hold onto Wei Ying and stare at the vast emptiness of the sky.

“Wangji,” Xichen calls.

He does not reply.

“Wangji, I'm sorry.”

Sorry? What good will apologies do?

He looks up, immediately hating the sympathy in Xichen's eyes. It is the same expression he had when he told Wangji that Wei Ying had died during the siege at the Burial Mounds. Wangji would never forget that expression.

He wants to say something to deny it, to chase away that pity.

The words die on his tongue. There is something else that is amiss.

His brother's spiritual energy... It is not there. He frowns. He can feel his own spiritual energy stirring inside him again. Whatever Wen Zhuliu had done, he only blocked Wangji's ability to use it for a short period of time. Now, it is back, reminding him that, once again, he had been too late to reach Wei Ying.

Xichen's, on the other hand... It is not dormant. It is simply not there.

“Brother,” Wangji slowly says. “Your spiritual energy...”

His brother's face says it all. His shoulders sink and he avoids Wangji's gaze.

“You...” Wangji cannot finish the sentence. He glances at Wen Zhuliu's corpse from the distance.

Xichen closes his eyes. “I'm sorry.”

Again with the apologies. Wangji continues to stare at Wen Zhuliu's corpse, wishing he could not piece together what had happened. His brother's spiritual energy is not there—it is no longer there. His brother's core is gone. All he can sense in front of him is just another human body.

He looks back at Xichen. “You are no longer immortal.”

For almost three thousand years, they have both lived immortal lives that they did not even want. For almost three thousand years, they have been the Twin Jades of Gusu; tired, but together.

Now, that is no more.

Xichen flinches as if he can read the direction of Wangji's thoughts. “Wangji.”

In one night, Wangji has lost Wei Ying and his brother. Wei Ying is dead, and his brother, eventually, will also die. He will remain an immortal, and this time, he will truly be alone.

He struggles to breathe. He can only look up at his brother, as if, by some miracle, he has an answer.

“What do I do now?” he asks.

The silence that responds to him is maddening. Wangji clings tighter to Wei Ying's body and wishes Xichen did not feel like a stranger. He cannot wait centuries for Wei Ying again, and now with his brother unable to join him—he cannot—he will not. In one night, everything has slipped past his fingers and Wangji has nothing left to cling onto.

He waits for his brother to say something. For all of his life, Xichen had always been there, reading his thoughts, offering comfort even when he did not want it. He may have lost everyone to time, but his brother had always, always been there.

The more he looks at Xichen, the more he senses the melted core inside him. It is a silence deeper than the words that won't leave his brother's mouth.

“Brother, I...” Wangji swallows the lump in his throat. When he looks back down at Wei Ying, he finds that his tears have dripped onto his cheeks. “I cannot do this.”

Xichen steps forward. “Wangji. Don't.”

He has lost Wei Ying and he is no longer strong enough to wait for him again. If he waits, he will be alone. He will have to watch Sizhui age, as he has always done so. He will have to say goodbye and let go. Not only that, he will have to stand back and lose his brother to time. If he is reincarnated, Xichen will forget about him; all those centuries, all those silent promises the two of them will never leave the other's side. Xichen will finally live a mortal life; something both of them thought they never could. Something Wangji never can.

He cannot do this.

Xichen kneels down beside him, trying to meet his eyes. “I know what you are thinking. Don't do it.”

“What would you have me do?” Wangji asks, still staring at Wei Ying's lifeless face. “Wait? Again? By myself?”

His brother does not respond. Wangji looks up, shaking. “Wei Ying is dead. You will die, as will everyone.” He takes a deep breath. “I will be all alone.”

“No, Wangji.”

Wangji turns away. “I cannot do this.”

Xichen grabs his face, trying to move his gaze back to him. “Look me in the eye and promise me you won't do anything.”

He cannot. Wangji keeps his eyes fixed on Wei Ying.

“Stay alive,” his brother says. “Don't leave me.”

But you will leave me.

Xichen shakes him gently. “Look at me. Look at me.”

There is a desperation in his voice that makes Wangji listen. He meets his brother's eyes and sees they are misted with unshed tears.

“Remember when people used to call us the Twin Jades? Remember when our sect was so proud that both of us cultivated to immortality?” Xichen says.

Wangji remembers; of course he does. He remembers looking at his brother and wondering how, just how, he had achieved this. He cultivated because it kept his mind preoccupied, because it was what was expected of them.

“We've lived for so long, Wangji. Too long. But you—you're stronger than this. You're stronger than me. I know you are.” Xichen squeezes his hands. “You've lived with this grief for so long and yet you have become a father to Sizhui, time and time again. You did not let your grief destroy you; you mourned, but you lived. You're stronger than this, Wangji.”

He lived because it was all that was left. He did not want to waste away like their father had in seclusion. He did not want to disappoint Wei Ying, wherever he was. Most of all, he did not want to give up.

“I am tired,” Wangji says. His brother is right; they have lived for too long. He does not want to do this anymore.

“I know,” Xichen says, squeezing his hands again, “and I'm sorry.”

Sorry. Another apology that Wangji does not wish to hear.

He looks into his brother's dark amber eyes and plays back the words he has said. He has always had to leave Sizhui eventually; as much as he cared for the child, he knew he deserved a father that could age with him, support him as any normal father would.

He can leave again. This time, Sizhui will have Xichen to age with him. He will not be alone.

It should bring him comfort. Instead, Wangji is torn by the guilt for even thinking it in the first place. He shakes his head, no longer able to stare at his brother.

Xichen is wrong. He is not strong at all.

Wangji rises, summoning his sword. Bichen returns to his side in a flash of white and silver. He holds Wei Ying closer to his chest and steps on the hovering blade.

“Wangji!” Xichen calls after him. “Where are you going?”

He refuses to look back. Xichen grabs onto his wrist, and by instinct, Wangji snatches it away.

Xichen had always been stronger than him. This time, his grip slips as easily as if Wangji had been held by a child. He freezes, looking down at his hand.

He hated it whenever his brother tried to stop him. Now he wishes he can.

Xichen is wincing again. “Promise me you'll come back.”

Wangji clenches his fists.

“Wangji!”

He ignores him and turns away, flying off the building. Above the cold moans of the breeze, he hears his brother calling after him. Wangji does not slow down. He allows the thick clouds to hide his presence from the rest of the world, knowing full well his brother can no longer follow him.

 

- x -

 

Wangji has no destination in mind. He ends up in a forest, hidden by towering trees that serve as his only company. Here, he is alone, and here, he can think. He does not have to think about his brother's face, begging him to stay alive even when it is the last thing Wangji wants. Cradling Wei Ying down on the damp ground, he listens to the thick silence of the night and wonders if it will ever end.

In a sense, he can choose when it ends. He has always had that choice. Now that his brother cannot stop him, what else is there left?

He can wait for Wei Ying—but why? Why is he still doing this? What is keeping him in this world? What has kept him here, for all these years?

Stubbornness? Love? Hope?

It all seems so laughable now. He has waited thousands of years for a chance of happiness, only for that to be taken away from him in one, single night. If he waits again, will the same thing? Will he find comfort in this momentary happiness and then lose it in the blink of an eye?

He cannot do that. He is tired, and he wants to give up. He wants to rest.

Looking down, he strokes back the strands of hair falling over Wei Ying's eyes and wishes he is only asleep.

How long will it take for him to find Wei Ying again? Why did he have to leave so soon? What good is being immortal if he cannot protect him?

Even if he is to find another reincarnation of Wei Ying, he will forget him—again. His brother, too, will forget him. Wangji will carry on walking this earth, with not a soul left to remember who he is. The cycle will repeat, again and again, until the end of time, until the world turns to ashes and it is kind enough to let Wangji go.

He shudders. He cannot do this. He is not as strong as his brother would like to think he is. He is too tired. He wants everything to end.

Maybe, if the gods are kind, he will meet Wei Ying in the next life. If things are destined, they will find each other again. If it is meant to be, it will be.

He grips his sword in his hands. On the blade, his reflection stares back, glassy-eyed and drained. Wangji has not aged a day older than thirty-five, but in this moment he feels as if he has lived for as long as he physically can. Almost three thousand years, and he can end it so easily with a quick slice of his neck. He is not afraid of pain and he is certainly not afraid of death. At this point, the only thing he is afraid of is living.

He could do it. Deep down, he knows he wants to.

Sizhui will be fine, he thinks, more as a selfish reassurance to combat the guilt trying to stop him. He will be better off with his brother, who can age with him. Xichen will not leave Sizhui behind.

Everyone will move on. Perhaps it is time he does the same.

He raises the blade, feeling its sharp edge kiss the hollow of his throat. Just one slice and everything will finally be over. Just one slice. One second. He can finally rest.

Wangji's pulse thunders under his ribs. He presses down on the blade, wishing to silence it.

He breathes. He remains still.

Just one cut, he thinks, begs. Just one.

Please.

He cannot do it.

Wangji's shoulders tremble and his hands shake. He tries to push down on the blade and implores himself to do it, but he can't move. He can't.

A sob breaks through him. He grips the blade tighter and throws it away, as far as he can. With only the trees in this forest to witness him, he cries into Wei Ying's chest and hates himself for being so weak. What is keeping him here? Why is he still here? He does not want to live, not if it means he will be alone in this world for decades, centuries. What good is immortality? Why is he still here?

The sound of approaching footsteps answer him.

Wangji stiffens, whirling around.

There, outlined by the white halo of moonlight, a woman stands before him. Her black hair trails in inky rivers down to her back, a stark contrast to the porcelain of her skin. She stares at Wangji with eyes that are darker than the night sky, and far, far emptier. He has seen her before, a lifetime ago, in a circus that gave Wangji more questions than the answers he sought to find.

“You...” he murmurs, clutching Wei Ying tighter to his chest.

She kneels down and returns his sword to his side. “So it has happened,” she says with a voice that stirs the entire forest. Gently, she strokes a finger across Wei Ying's cheek. It takes every ounce of Wangji's self control not to pull him away.

So, there was this immortal woman whose eyes were as black as night, Wei Ying's voice rings in his ears. Her skin was as pale as the moon; and whenever she spoke, it sounded as if all of the stars in the universe were talking to you.

It had only been a story, but Wangji was desperate. He still is. He remembers the story as clear as if Wei Ying is sharing it right now.

“It's you,” he says. “The story about the nameless star.”

A smile spreads across the woman's face. “Of course he would have told you about that.” She rises. With every move she makes, the moon seems to gaze after her. “I was the one who told his mother that story,” she says.

“His mother?” Wei Ying's real parents had always died when he was young. There is little known about them. “Cangse... Sanren?”

The immortal shakes her head. “That wasn't her name in this life.”

In this life? How does she know her in this life?

“I brought her up,” she answers, reading his thoughts, “as I did in her original life.”

Wangji frowns. Cangse Sanren had been the pupil of a famous rogue cultivator before she eventually left and married Wei Changze.

“You are... Baoshan Sanren,” Wangji says.

Her eyes soften.

“The story... Was it about you?”

She gazes up at the moon, pursing her pale lips. “It was, in another life.” A million other questions flies through Wangji's mind. As if sensing this, Baoshan Sanren sighs. “Let's talk elsewhere.”

As soon as he blinks, they are no longer in the forest. Wangji jolts, surprised by the sudden change of environment. The cold breeze is gone, replaced by a homely fireplace that burns in the centre of this small cottage. Baoshan Sanren sits by the table, pouring herself a cup of tea. She nods towards the bed in the corner.

“Put him down,” she says.

Wangji does not move. This cottage is small, barely able to accommodate three people. He spots a kitchen—or rather, a cramped area with a metal pot and wooden counters. There are various shelves with countless jars, each containing different plants or herbs. Wangji feels as if he has stepped right into a witch's home.

“You are both safe here,” Baoshan Sanren reassures him. She pours a second cup of tea, still waiting for him to move. “Put him down and we can talk.”

He watches her until she is finished pouring tea. It is only when she finally looks up that he heeds her words. Reluctantly, Wangji lays Wei Ying down on the bed, as gently as he can. Not wanting to leave his side, he sits down on the chair nearby.

Baoshan Sanren joins him with the cups of tea. He takes his own, although he does not drink it. Wangji stares down at the dark liquid and sees his hazy reflection.

“He looks exactly like his mother,” Baoshan Sanren says, nodding at Wei Ying.

Wangji studies her black eyes. He repeats Wei Ying's story in his head, remembering how the immortal had brought back her lost lover.

“How do I bring him back?” he asks.

Baoshan Sanren dips her head down, sipping her tea, her actions deliberately slow. “If you know the story of the nameless star, then you already have your answer,” she says, after what felt like an eternity.

Wangji grips his cup tighter. “Tell me how to do it.”

“You will also know what will happen afterwards.” She sighs. “When a human dies, they are wiped of their memories. No one wants to move onto the next life filled with regrets.”

The human in Wei Ying's story had his memory wiped. After everything the immortal did, she was forgotten by the very person she wanted to save.

“Wei Ying started to remember his past life,” Wangji quietly says, clinging onto hope.

“Sometimes, the body will remember what the mind has forgotten.” Baoshan Sanren nods. “You and your brother... have acted as a beacon for these lost humans. They see the both of you, and it triggers memories in them that transcend lifetimes.”

She takes another drink of her tea, ignoring the confusion on Wangji's face. “Of course, there are some who refuse to let go of the past. Wen Ruohan was born into this life retaining all of the memories he had of his original. He could not accept his death, therefore he clung onto everything and allowed that to ruin who he is now.”

“And Wen Chao?”

Baoshan Sanren shakes her head. “Wen Chao only remembered because his father did not allow him to forget. He jumped off that rooftop because he could not accept it.”

Shuddering, Wangji thinks back to Wen Chao's unrecognisable body splattered all over that pavement. To remember a life that is entirely different from the one you have now... He can understand why that would drive anyone into insanity.

“We are not meant to remember the past,” Baoshan Sanren says. “The human mind can barely withstand the present; remembering more than one life will only destroy you in the end.”

Wangji's gaze roams over Wei Ying. Before he died, Wei Ying said he had started to remember. He had been scared and confused, and Wangji did not know anything. As always, he was too late.

“Wei Wuxian did not want to return at first,” Baoshan Sanren tells him. “When we met in that circus, you asked me where he was, and I told you that—”

“It would depend on whether he wanted to be found,” Wangji interrupts.

She nods. “He never wanted to return. You were waiting for him for all of these centuries, and he... he was content to stay dead.”

It should not come as a surprise. Considering the events that led to Wei Ying's first death... Wangji did not think he would want to return after that either. Wei Ying had lived a lonely and unforgiving life; it drained him entirely of everything, until he was nothing but a shell of the person he used to be. Wangji thought he could save him—Wangji wanted to save him.

He was too late. He is always too late.

“Then why did he come back?” he asks.

Baoshan Sanren reaches over to stroke back Wei Ying's hair. “I do not know the answer to that. Only he does. Maybe he wanted another chance in life. Maybe he wanted a new beginning.”

A new beginning—and yet it had ended like this.

“He deserves better,” Wangji says. “He deserves to live.”

Baoshan Sanren does not answer him. She pulls her hand back. There is evident pity in her dark eyes.

Wangji places the cup of tea down on the table. “Tell me how to bring him back.”

“He has already died. Even if you were to bring him back, it is likely he will forget everything.”

He knows that. He has always known that. Losing his core does not matter; Wei Ying forgetting about him... it does not matter. If Wei Ying is alive and well, then Wangji can rest knowing he has done what has needed to be done.

“I... I want him to be happy. If I cannot be part of that life...” He clenches his fist, remembering the way Wei Ying's eyes lit up whenever he saw him. He remembers every touch, every kiss, every laugh that was music in his life. He remembers the fleeting time he shared with Wei Ying and knows it will hurt to lose it. He remembers—he will always remember, even if Wei Ying forgets. “As long as he is safe, then so be it.”

The pity in Baoshan Sanren's eyes hurts to look at. “Does it not tire you?” she asks. “Loving someone to this degree?”

Yes, Wangji wants to say. Always. But he cannot change it. He loves Wei Ying and he wants to be with him

Yet, most of all, he wants Wei Ying to be happy. If he is happy, then that is enough for Wangji. It will always be enough.

Wangji swallows down the words in his throat. “You... sacrificed your core too.”

“I have a lived a long, long life. And many different lives. Compared to me, you are a child.” Baoshan Sanren gives him a bitter smile. “That story is nothing but a story to me now. In time, it stops hurting.”

Wangji does not want it to stop hurting. If it stops hurting, then that will mean he has stopped caring. He will be just like her; alone and immortal, roaming this world as a ghost rather than a person. He would rather die than turn into that.

“Help me bring him back. I will do anything,” he insists.

“I know you will,” Baoshan Sanren says. Her voice is grave, harsh. “You will lose your core, you will lose your immortality, and you will lose him. Knowing this, do you still want my help?”

Wangji does not hesitate. “Yes.”