Archive of Our Own

“Cowards!” Jingyi snarls.

His spiritual energy has been blocked, and two older Yao sect cultivators have his arms twisted behind his back, but he doesn’t stop struggling. His shoulders scream, and he doesn’t really have a chance of breaking free, but he refuses to let them drag him away.

“Loyalty is an admirable trait, little Lan,” says the oldest of the cultivators who ambushed Sizhui and him, a man dressed in Lanling Jin gold and with more white than black in his hair.  “But the Wen dog isn’t worth your loyalty.”

“Advice and admiration from cowards and traitors are worth less than nothing,” Jingyi spits at him.

Jingyi glares at him, simmering with hate and anger.

“Lan Sizhui is worth more than all of you combined,” Jingyi snaps, trying again to jerk his arms free.

The older man just sighs and shakes his head.  

“They did say he was hot-headed,” one of the men dragging Jingyi down the hallway says.

“An unusual characteristic for a Lan.”

“Fuck you!” Jingyi snaps.  He’s been told hundreds of times that he’s not very Lan-like but he will be damned if he will take that from these cowards.

“Put him in a room to cool down.  The Wen boy has obviously blinded him to what is right,” the older man orders.  

“The only one blinded here is you,” Jingyi snaps.  “Blinded by your own desire for revenge.  Do not hold grudges.  Be trustworthy.   Even Gusu Lan toddlers know better than you. ”

“Make sure his spiritual energy is blocked,” the man says, ignoring Jingyi.  “We need to give him back to Gusu Lan uninjured.”

“You are a bunch of filthy cowards who lay traps for honest men and ambush them.  You can’t even challenge two junior disciples on even terms.  How dare you call yourselves cultivators?”

They reach a door, and the two men holding Jingyi tighten their grip as a third man reaches out to block Jingyi’s spiritual energy, again .  He steps back and opens a door, and the two men holding Jingyi throw him in, sending him flying almost into the far wall of the small room.  Jingyi immediately turns and lunges towards the door, but it’s closed well before he can reach it.  He hears the lock click, and he slams his fists against the door.

“Cowards!”

The wood of the door rattles under his blow.  

Seething, Jingyi stares at the door.  He forces himself to wait until the sound of footsteps fades from the hallway before hitting the door again, not as hard.  It rattles.  Jingyi might not be able to channel his spiritual energy right now, but he’s still strong.  Jingyi hits the door a third time.  He’s fairly certain that he could force it open, but it would be loud, and he’d immediately be caught.  Without his spiritual energy or his sword, he doesn’t have much of a chance against multiple trained cultivators in a fair fight.

Jingyi spins away from the door, looking at the room that he’s been locked in.  It’s obviously a room and not a cell, but there is no window.   It’s sparsely decorated: a room for an ascetic and not a rich man, but Jingyi is from Gusu Lan, and the austerity barely registers. The only light comes from a lantern on the table, and Jingyi momentarily contemplates setting the place on fire.

His whole mind is focused on one thing, and one thing only: Sizhui, getting him out and somewhere safe.  It’s already been too long since they were separated.  He’s not completely sure where they took Sizhui, but he knows it won't be pleasant.  He knows exactly how deep hate runs for the Wens.  These men were willing to abuse Jingyi and Sizhui’s friendship with Zizhen–Jingyi refuses to believe that Zizhen betrayed them–and turn Sizhui’s generous heart and willingness to help against him; he doesn’t want to think about what they will do to Sizhui now that they have him.

Jingyi barely resists the urge to punch the wall in frustration.  He paces the small room, only four strides across in one direction and six in the other.  His mind spins, trying to find a way out of this.  Even if he had his sword and his spiritual energy, he is only one relatively inexperienced cultivator against the entirety of Ouyang Baling and what seems to be a good number of Laning Jin and Pingyang Yao cultivators.  But he can’t just sit here.  He can’t do nothing. Sizhui is in danger, and Jingyi would rather die than abandon him.

Over and over and over again, he paces the floor and asks himself what he can do.  He thinks about what Hanguang-jun would do, but even Hanguang-jun and Zewu-jun had been trapped in Guanyin Temple when their spiritual energy had been blocked.  In the Burial Mounds, even Sandu Shengshou had been defanged by Su She’s trickery.  Even the most powerful cultivators he can think of had been left helpless, except– That’s when it hits him.  There is one person who struck fear into every heart in the Jianghu without any spiritual energy of his own.  There is one way to seize power that is not your own.

Demonic cultivation.

Jingyi stands stock-still.

Do not associate with evil.  Take the straight path.  Reject the crooked path.  Follow the righteous way.  Do not fall to evil.

Rule after rule echoes through his mind, warning him against this course of action, forbidding him from taking it.  His entire life, the evils of demonic cultivation have been drilled into his head.  Part of him recoils, instinctively, from the idea of using it, even though he’s seen Senior Wei use it for good time and time again.

Jingyi closes his eyes, and the first thing he sees is Sizhui’s face.  His eyes snap open, and his face becomes a mask of determination.  For Sizhui, he would do anything.

‘Demonic cultivation damages the mind and soul, there are no exceptions throughout history.’   It is Hanguang-jun’s calm voice, warning him.  Jingyi’s hands clench into fists.  Sizhui might die if they don’t get out of here.  He might be tortured.  

It’s not a decision, so much as an inevitability.  His sanity? His soul? For Sizhui? He’d make that sacrifice every time.

Taking a deep breath, Jingyi reaches into his qiankun sleeve and pulls out the xiao that he carries and turns it over in his hands.  He is not the most talented musician in Gusu Lan, but he once witnessed Senior Wei summon the Ghost General–Senior Wen–with a flute made of crude bamboo.  It must be more about intention than technique.

His hand clenches around the jade of the flute.  Have a strong will and anything can be achieved. 

Jingyi closes his eyes.  He softly hums one of the tunes he’s heard Senior Wei play as he reaches for resentful energy.  Unfortunately for him, cultivators routinely cleanse any resentful energy from their homes, but Jingyi is stubborn; he keeps reaching.  He can hear the sound of Senior Wei’s flute loud in his ears, and he knows it’s his imagination, but it helps.  He senses the resentful energy at last, and it stirs as he reaches for it.  His heart leaps in hope.

He pauses.

His heart is screaming at him to act now , to get to Sizhui now, but he forces himself to wait.  It was afternoon when the men ambushed Sizhui and him in the woods, and he should wait for night.  It’s the logical thing.  Resentful spirits will have more power at night, many of the men will likely be asleep, and hopefully, they will think that Jingyi has stopped fighting if he is quiet for several hours.  The problem, however, is forcing himself to sit still and quiet for several hours.  Patience has never been Jingyi’s strong suit, and right now, with Sizhui in danger, it takes every bit of his Gusu Lan discipline to stop himself from jumping into action.

Slowly, he pulls his senses back to himself and opens his eyes.  He attaches the flute to his belt, the way that Zewu-jun often does.  Now is not the time for impulsive action.  If he gets caught this time, then things will really be over.  He’ll be killed or arrested right next to Sizhui for using demonic cultivation, and getting out of a jail cell or off an executioner's block will be much harder than getting out of this room.

He forces himself to sit down on the ground in lotus position and close his eyes.  He has never been great at meditation even under the best circumstances.  He wants to pace or run or scream, to do something, to do anything, but he needs to preserve whatever he can of his strength.  If he manages to get Sizhui free, they are going to have to run as far and as fast as they can.

Out of habit, he tries to focus on his golden core and the flow of energy through his meridians and ends up struggling against the block on his spiritual energy.  Sweat breaks out on his brow, but no matter how he fights, he can’t break through.

His eyes open and he takes several deep breaths.  Feeling useless and frustrated, he slams his fist into his thigh hard enough to bruise, but it does nothing to ease his frustration.

Calling on every tip and trick that he’s ever been taught about meditation, Jingyi finally manages to find, not calm exactly but, equilibrium as time trickles by painfully slowly.

He feels fatigue begin to kick in and knows that 9 pm must be closing in, but he forces himself to stay awake and keep waiting.

The sound of soft footsteps outside of Jingyi’s door sends him lurching to his feet and reaching for a sword that isn’t there.  He hears a click as the lock turns, and he braces himself.  As the door opens, he launches himself towards it, ready to try, at least, to get past, but he comes to an abrupt halt when he sees that it’s Zizhen in the door.

He opens his mouth, but Zizhen hastily puts a finger to his lips, and Jingyi shuts his mouth quickly.  Zizhen slips into the room and closes the door behind him.  His eyes are red as if he’s been crying, and his face is a little pale, but it’s set into a mask of anger and determination.

“What?” Jingyi says.  

“I’m here to get you out,” Zizhen says.  From the beginning, Jingyi had refused to believe that Zizhen had betrayed them, but knowing, for certain, eases something inside his chest.

“Sizhui–” Jingyi starts immediately.

“Him too,” Zizhen says.

He reaches into his qiankun pouch and pulls out Jingyi’s sword, “here.”

Surprised, Jingyi takes the sword from him.  Apparently, Zizen’s father had underestimated Zizhen, again.

“I don’t have Sizhui’s,” Zizhen apologizes. “One of the Jin cultivators took it, and I don’t know where they put it.”

“This is already very helpful, Zizhen, thank you,” Jingyi says.  “They blocked my spiritual energy anyway, so Sizhui can use this.”

“Put it away for now,” Zizhen says, “in case we get caught.  It’s better if they don’t know you have it.”

“Right,” Jingyi says and puts the sword into his qiankun sleeves. 

“We should hurry,” Zizhen says.  “The further away you are by dawn, the better.”

Jingyi nods, “Do you have a plan to get Sizhui?”

Zizhen holds up a heavy-looking keyring.  “These keys can get me into any room in Baling.”

Jingyi could hug Zizhen, and he would have if Zizhen wasn’t already easing the door to the room open.

“I drugged the wine at dinner, so almost everybody should be asleep for now,” Zizhen whispers, “but there will still be a few guards that we need to avoid, and as soon as people start waking up, they’ll know something is wrong.”

Jingyi’s eyebrows shoot up.  It turns out that he had underestimated Zizhen too.

Zizhen gestures for Jingyi to follow him, and the two of them slip out of the room and into the dark corridor.  The only light comes from the moon outside, through a window, and Jingyi can’t make out more than general shapes, but it’s enough for him to follow Zizhen as they move with catlike quiet down the hall.

“I’ll take you to the docks once we get Sizhui,” Zizhen murmurs, so quietly that even Jingyi hardly hears him.  “It’s the best way out of Baling. It’s faster than walking and almost impossible to track, but it makes you vulnerable to attack.  Take the boat as far as you can in the dark then, when the sky starts to lighten and they have a chance of seeing you from a distance, get off of the boat and onto land.  So long as you push the boat back into the river, it’ll be almost impossible to figure out where exactly you went.”

“Alright,” Jingyi says softly.  He’s starting to feel a glimmer of hope that they might actually make it out of here.

Zizhen leads him out of the building, and they dart from one building to the next, sticking to the shadows and keeping an eye out for anyone who might be watching.  They keep absolutely silent as they move from shadow to shadow, slowly making their way through Baling.  Jingyi’s heartbeat is loud in his ears as he strains to catch any sound of someone around them.

They are close to the large central hall when Zizhen edges closer to Jingyi and whispers in his ear.  “Sizhui will be in the secret rooms under the building behind the main hall.  I’m sure there will be guards at the outer door and possibly more inside.  Luckily, they aren’t expecting any resistance.”  

Zizhen’s eyes flash dangerously, and Jingyi is a little glad that he is on the right side of Zizhen’s anger.

“They blocked my spiritual energy,” Jingyi murmurs as quietly as he can.  “So I’m no good if it turns into a fight, but I can knock someone out easily enough if we surprise them.”

He decides not to tell Zizhen about his plan to use demonic cultivation.  If Zizhen doesn’t know, he can’t be blamed for it.

Zizhen nods.  His hand goes to a fan hanging from his belt, and the glint of the moon on the fan’s frame tells him that it’s metal.  

“We want to avoid a fight anyway; it’ll make too much noise.  We knock them out as fast as we can.”

Jingyi nods.

Zizhen starts moving again, and Jingyi sticks to him like a burr.  Even the nearly silent sound of their steps seems loud against the night.  They reach the main building and slink along, keeping themselves pressed to the walls, hiding in the deep shadows cast by the overhanging roof.  

As they reach the edge of the building, Jingyi spots cultivators standing in front of the door to the next building.  He and Zizhen freeze the instant they come into view, and for a moment, Jingyi hardly dares to breathe, but the cultivators seem oblivious to their presence.  

Jingyi eyes the distance from his position to the cultivators, trying to estimate how long it will take him to reach the guard, and how much time their opponents will have to react.  They need to knock them out before they can yell for help.  Luckily, the buildings are close together, with only a single walkway between them.  

Jingyi taps Zizhen’s right hand, and Zizhen tilts his hand towards the man on the left, furthest from them.  Jingyi takes a steadying breath and shifts his weight up onto the balls of his feet, ready to move.  He can do this.  No, he has to do this, for Sizhui.

He taps his fingers against Zizhen’s wrist, once, twice.

The world seems suspended for a moment, poised on a knife-edge.

Thrice.

They burst into motion: Zizhen left and Jingyi right.  One step, two steps, the guards jerk in surprise, three steps, the guards start to draw their swords, four steps, Jingyi strikes the pressure point in the man’s wrist with his right hand, his hand goes limp and the clank of metal on metal is loud against the night, Jingyi’s left-hand slams into the pressure point on the man’s neck, and he drops.

Only then does Jingyi let himself look over at Zizhen.  There’s a guard crumpled at his feet with his blade half-drawn.  Zizhen flips his fan around in his hand with a casual motion; he must have used the metal butt of the fan to knock the man out.

Zizhen pulls out the keyring and sorts through it hastily before handing it to Jingyi and kneeling down to check on the guards.  Jingyi unlocks the door and opens it as Zizhen blocks the guard's spiritual energy and uses some of his own to keep them unconscious.

There doesn’t seem to be any light coming from the door, so the two of them slip inside.  Once inside, they can see that there’s a faint light coming from down a set of stairs at the far side of the room.

Zizhen holds up a hand for Jingyi to wait and carefully creeps towards the stairs and down.  Jingyi takes up a position by the door, watching the night for any sign of disturbance.  As Zizhen vanishes from view, Jingyi tenses, straining his ears against the silence, ready to launch into action at a sign of trouble, but Zizhen returns without incident.

“Only one guard, and he looks bored out of his mind,” Zizhen murmurs into Jingyi’s ear.  “Down the stairs and at the end of the hall.  The cells are just behind him.”

“Sizhui–”

“I couldn’t see,” Zizhen says gently.  “I can go back and get him, but one of us has to keep a lookout here.”

“I’ll go get Sizhui,” Jingyi says immediately.  Zizhen nods and pulls out the keyring again.  He slips a heavy, iron key off of the ring and hands it to Jingyi, who tucks it into his sleeve.

“Down the stairs, to the end of the hall, turn right,” Zizhen whispers.  “Just follow the light.”

Even without the aid of his spiritual energy, Jingyi’s steps are almost completely silent as he makes his way down the stairs.  Stone steps are blessedly easy to keep quiet on: no floorboards to squeak or twigs and leaves to crunch.  Jingyi’s heart beats faster as he eases down the hallway one step at a time.  He is so close to Sizhui now. They are so close to freedom, but he can’t rush, not yet.

Jingyi presses himself against the wall, getting as close to the end of the hall as he can without being spotted.  His whole body is alert, ready to fight.  He dares a quick glance around the corner to get an idea of the size of the space and the position of his opponent and gets a fleeting impression of a closed space with a heavy door and a man leaning against the wall.

Jingyi takes one long breath, and then, in one fluid motion, he turns around the corner and launches himself toward the guard.  The man has his sword in its sheath, and Jingyi aims straight for it, needing to disarm him before anything else.

The man lets out a startled sound as he realizes that he’s no longer alone, but Jingyi is too focused to worry about the sound right now.  The man tries to draw his sword, but Jingyi is inside of his guard before he can get it free of the scabbard.  Jingyi hits the pressure point in the man’s shoulder, and the sword clatters to the ground as the man’s whole arm goes numb. With a sharp chopping motion, Jingyi hits the pressure point on the man’s neck, and then, when the man goes completely still, slams his fist into his jaw, dropping him.  In moments the entire thing is over.

Jingyi doesn’t pause to watch his opponent go down, he immediately moves towards the cell door.  The heavy wooden door has a barred window on it, and Jingyi looks through it even as he pulls out the key.

Sizhui is there, on the floor, his hands bound by immortal binding cables.  He’s sprawled across the floor as if he had been tossed there and hadn’t moved, and his long hair is falling out of his ponytail.  His bangs hide his face from Jingyi’s view.

Incandescent rage fills Jingyi at the sight of Sizhui lying on the floor of the cell like something discarded.  He’s so angry that his fingers fumble the key in the lock, but once it’s open, he throws the heavy door open with a bang and falls to his knees next to Sizhui.

From this angle, he can see that there’s a bruise spreading across Sizhui’s jaw and up the side of his face.  The blow must have knocked him unconscious.  In that moment, Jingyi wants nothing more than to burn this entire place to the ground.  He wants the disciples of Lanling Jin, Pingyang Yao, and Ouyang Baling to suffer.  

“A-Yuan, A-Yuan!” Jingyi’s voice is as loud as he dares.

Sizhui doesn’t respond, and panic joins Jingyi’s rage.  He can see that Sizhui is breathing, and it’s the only thing stopping him from going berserk.

Despite his rage and fear, his hands are gentle as he pushes Sizhui’s hair away from his face and checks his pulse, which is slow and steady as if he were merely asleep.  

Jingyi quickly checks Sizhui for any more dangerous injuries.  He needs to know before he tries to move him.  Satisfied that there’s no damage to his neck or spine, Jingyi tries gently shaking him awake.

“Sizhui, Sizhui please wake up, please.”  His voice almost breaks on the last word.

He stirs but doesn’t wake.  Carefully, lovingly, Jingyi gathers Sizhui into his arms and lifts him.  He wants to yell to Zizhen for help, but he can’t let himself act impulsively, not when Sizhui’s life depends on it.  

Desperately wishing he could use his own spiritual energy to heal Sizhui, Jingyi carries him out of the cell. He passes the unconscious guard, and the only thing that stops him from kicking the man into the cell wall is the fact that he has to take care of Sizhui.

Fear, concern, and anger boil in Jingyi as he rushes down the hall toward Zizhen.  

“Zizhen!” Jingyi hisses as he clears the stairs. “Help!”

Zizhen turns from the door, and his eyes go wide.

“What’s wrong?” Zizhen asks as Jingyi carefully lays Sizhui on the ground.

“He’s unconscious and isn’t waking,” Jingyi says. His fingers ghost over the livid bruising on his jaw.  “I can’t tell much more without my spiritual energy or more time.”

Zizhen nods and his hands start to glow the soft green of spring as he puts his fingers against Sizhui’s wrist.  His face is pale, but the expression on his face is anger and not fear.

“Nothing critical,” Zizhen says, and his voice is tight.

Jingyi breathes a little easier.  He looks down at Sizhui.  Long strands of hair have fallen free from his ponytail, something Sizhui never would have let happen if he was awake, and Jingyi’s fingers itch to fix it, to make it right again.

“I have medicine with me,” Zizhen says, “but we need to get out of here first, can you carry him, or should I?”

“I can do it,” Jingyi says, gathering Sizhui into his arms.  “Show me the way.”

Zizhen goes to the door.  He points away from the main building.  “We’re going to go this way. We’ll have to go through the forest.  It’s slower than going through Baling, but we are much less likely to be seen.”

Jingyi just nods.  

They slip back out into the night.  Jingyi silently prays to his ancestors and the gods and to anyone who might listen.  They make their way, sticking to shadows as much as possible, but it’s hard to hide when he has to carry Sizhui.  With every step, Jingyi's panic gives way to anger.  Sizhui is limp as a doll in his arms, and he’s not heavy, but his unconscious weight only adds to Jingyi’s anger.

When they leave the last building behind and escape into the trees, Jingyi breathes a little easier.  They have to slow down as they move through the dark woods; the footing is slightly treacherous, and the moonlight filtering through the trees is barely enough to see by.  Jingyi can hear the soft sound of rushing water not far away from one of the many small rivers or streams that run through Baling. 

Despite the dark, Zizhen leads them forward without hesitation, and Jingyi has to wonder exactly how much time Zizhen spends sneaking out of Baling.

“Almost to the big river,” Zizhen murmurs.  

Jingyi squeezes Sizhui a little tighter.  They are so close.  

“I’ll get you on a boat,” Zizhen says.  “If you head east and get out on this side of the river, you will find the road to Gusu.”

Jingyi looks down at Sizhui.  He can’t fly without his spiritual energy, and it doesn’t seem like Sizhui is going to be in any state to fly either.  On foot, they’ll be much easier to catch. 

“Everyone will expect us to run to Gusu,” Jingyi says slowly.

“They will.” 

And if we make it to Gusu? Jingyi wonders. He doesn’t want to believe that the sect that raised them would turn Sizhui over, but even if they didn’t, it would be Gusu Lan against the rest of the Jianghu.  But where else could they go? There are only two other places that Jingyi can think to go: Yiling and Qishan.  No one would follow them there; he hopes.

“I–”

“Don’t tell me,” Zizhen says.  “It’s better if I don’t know.”

“You aren’t coming with us?” Jingyi asks softly, standing still.

“No,” Zizhen shakes his head and turns to face Jingyi.  “I am staying.  I won’t run from my own home because of them. Besides, they could try and claim you kidnapped or bewitched me if I go with you, and that would turn the entire cultivation world against you.”

“You're going to be punished,” Jingyi says.  Zizhen’s actions are tantamount to treason; if he wasn’t the Sect Leader’s son, Jingyi would be worried about him being kicked out of the sect entirely.  He doesn’t want to think about what punishment Zizhen might face for helping them. 

“Let them,” Zizhen says, eyes bright in the moonlight.  “I’m not a coward.”

Jingyi looks at his friend, who is usually so soft and kind, and his heart aches for Zizhen, to see him forced into this.

“Sizhui and I owe you our lives.”

Zizhen shakes his head.

“It’s my fault that you’ve been taken, and my sect who hurt you.  It’s my duty to make it right.”

Jingyi shakes his head in disagreement.  Certainly, no one else in Ouyang Baling seems to share Zizhen’s convictions.

“You are an amazing man, Zizhen,” Jingyi says softly as the realization washes over him that he very well might never see Zizhen again after tonight.  “One day you are going to be a great Sect Leader.  If we don’t see each other again–”

Zizhen puts his hand on Jingyi’s shoulder and squeezes, silencing him.

“One day, this whole thing will be behind us.  Save your words for then,” Zizhen says.

Jingyi shakes his head again.

“You are like a brother to me, Zizhen,” Jingyi says.

Despite everything, Zizhen smiles and says, “brothers then.”

Jingyi swallows hard and nods.

Zizhen glances over his shoulder.  “We are almost to the dock.  We’ll need to move quickly once we are out in the open.”

“Right.”

Reaching into his sleeve, Zizhen pulls out a qiankun pouch, “there is food, medicine, and a change of clothes in this. It’s not much, but it’s all I could get without drawing too much attention.”

“Thank you,” Jingyi says with feeling.

Zizhen's gaze lingers on Sizhui for a long moment, and Jingyi wonders if he feels the same ruinous anger coursing through Jingyi’s veins.  

Carefully, Zizhen scrawls a talisman in glowing green over Sizhui, and Jingyi watches as it vanishes into his skin.  Sizhui doesn’t so much as stir, but Zizhen draws the talisman three more times, each time Zizhen’s spiritual energy sinks into Sizhui’s skin and vanishes.  

“That’s the best I can do,” he says, sounding a little helpless.

“You’ve already saved us,” Jingyi tells him.  “It’s more than enough.”

Zizhen nods and straightens up.

“It’s going to be dangerous as long as you stay with him, but I know you will take care of him,” Zizhen says. 

“With my life,” Jingyi says.

“Take care of yourself too,” Zizhen says.  Then he turns away. “Let’s go.” 

Jingyi follows Zizhen the short distance to the pier, and then they move quickly over the weathered wood of the pier to one of the boats.  It’s small, designed to be operated by one person, and Jingyi carefully lays Sizhui in it before getting in himself.

Jingyi glances back at the dark outlines of buildings in the distance.  He looks down at Sizhui as he takes up the oars.

“Tell them,” Jingyi says, and his voice is quiet but cold.  “If they come after us, if they try to hurt him again, that I will kill them.”

“It won’t stop them, but I will tell them.”  Zizhen unties the rope holding the boat to the pier with deft, well-practiced movements.

“I know,” Jingyi says, “but I tried to warn them.”

Zizhen looks at him and their eyes meet.

“Run,” Zizhen whispers, “and keep running until you're both safe.”

He pushes the boat into the river.  The current is lazy and the boat drifts until Jingyi dips the oars into the water and starts to row.  He looks northeast, towards Gusu, towards home, but the prow of the boat points west. 

A flash of moonlight on metal catches Jingyi’s attention, and he jerks his head to look back at the pier as his heart jumps in fear, but the only form he can see is Zizhen’s.  Moonlight flashes on steel again, and Jingyi realizes what he’s seeing as Zizhen sets boat after boat drifting into the river.

Jingyi swallows hard and turns his attention westward.

“Protect him,” Jingyi whispers, though who he is praying to, he isn’t sure.  Help feels very far away right now.  All he can do is hope that Sect Leader Ouyang’s love for his son will temper his anger.

Jingyi looks down at Sizhui, still unconscious, and pale in the moonlight.  The dark bruise on his cheek is stark against his pale skin, and Jingyi’s hands tighten on the oars as anger surges through him again.  

His mind goes to the medicine that Zizhen had given them, but he keeps rowing.  He wants to heal Sizhui now, to wake him up and talk to him, to make sure that he really is okay, but he has to trust Zizhen’s word that Sizhui’s life isn’t in danger.  His priority is to get them as far as he can before the sun rises, and, given Sizhui’s seasickness, waking him up just so that he can spend the next few hours throwing up over the side of the boat seems a little cruel.

Jingyi rows, moving the oars in smooth, rhythmic motions.  He keeps glancing behind him, checking for light from Baling or for the shadows of boats behind him or cultivators in the sky.  The night is quiet, but every sudden splash or animal cry sets his nerves on edge.  

It hasn’t been long, maybe half an hour when the sound of voices, carrying over the water, reaches Jingyi’s ears, and for a moment he freezes completely.  He turns to look behind him, hoping against hope that it’s just some teenagers in one of the riverside villages.  Dread settles into his stomach as he spies the glimmer of lights in the distance, right where Baling should be.

Panic threatens to seize him, but he forces himself to breathe.  He looks down at Sizhui again; he can’t panic, not now.  His gaze darts to the shore.  He has two options, stay in the water or get out.  They’ll be easier to see on the river, but they are still too close to Baling.  If they try to escape on foot, especially if Jingyi has to carry Sizhui, they won’t make it.  

Jingyi stows the oars.  The river makes it harder for the cultivators chasing them to use their numbers to their advantage.  Jingyi raises his xiao, fingers settling into familiar positions along the carved jade.  Jingyi closes his eyes.  There is something else the river has.

Jingyi can sense the low current of resentful energy when he reaches for it. It’s not strong enough to be dangerous on its own, but once directed, it should do what he needs it to.  He puts the xiao to his lips and plays softly.  The dead of the river are calm and old, but he can sense them, and they stir when he reaches for them.  He pulls back, satisfied.

He looks back down the river, toward Baling, and he can see motion and lights. It's hard for him to tell in the dark how many people are coming, but it seems like a small group.  Maybe they hadn’t been able to gather many boats, or maybe most of the cultivators are still in a drugged sleep, whatever it is, he is grateful for it.

After a moment of deliberation, Jingyi takes up the oars again.  He’s not under the illusion that he can escape the men chasing them, but the further he can get away from Baling the better.  As he rows, he listens to the sounds of voices and waits.  It takes some time for the men searching for them to decide that they must have gone southwest, but not as long as Jingyi would have liked.

When the boats are close enough that he can make out individual words of the cultivators' conversations, he stows the oars to free his hands.

“There!” a man yells, “I see them, just there.”

Jingyi shifts Sizhui so that the sides of the boat block him from view.  He looks so gentle in his sleep: serene, almost angelic.  Jingyi swallows hard.  It’s best if Sizhui isn’t awake for this.  Jingyi will defend Sizhui to his last breath, but it’s best if Sizhui doesn’t see this.

“I love you,” Jingyi whispers, and then, “Forgive me.”

Jingyi takes the xiao in his hand.

The men are close enough now that he can see their faces in the light of the lamps hanging from their boats.  He recognizes the old Jin cultivator who had been with him earlier.

“You can’t escape us!” another Jin cultivator yells.  

“You should have stayed in Baling,” Jingyi says.  He doesn’t want to kill these men, but he will.  He will.

The man who had spoken snorts.  “Are you threatening us? You are all alone, and you don’t even have your sword.”

The elderly Jin cultivator raises his hand to silence the younger man.  He looks at Jingyi.

“This has gone on long enough,” the old Jin cultivator says.  “Hand over the Wen boy, and no one will hurt you. You can go back to the Cloud Recesses and forget this ever happened.”

Jingyi’s eyes narrow as his temper sparks.  Forget this ever happened? He will never forget this even if he gains immortality, and he doubts he’ll forgive, either.

“You have my word,” the Jin cultivator says in a practiced, velvety voice.

Jingyi snorts.

“Your word? What is the word of a snake worth?”

The man snarls.

“I was hoping that your sect leader would have you whipped,” Jingyi says, raising his xiao.

“My sect leader is a child–”

“—But I don’t think you are going to live that long.”

He puts the xiao to his lips.

“What does he have?” someone yells.

“Is that a flute?”

“He’s a Lan!” 

A sardonic smile appears on Jingyi’s lips. Song of Turmoil is the least of their worries right now.  The sound of the xiao flows over the water, and Jingyi reaches for the spirits of the water again.  The resentful energy stirs, but it’s sluggish.  Jingyi grimaces and pushes harder, pouring his own anger and fear into the song.  All he has to do is picture Sizhui lying on that cell floor, and his anger surges.  As his temper rises, like calls to like, and the resentful energy answers him.  

“Stop him!” someone yells, but it seems far away.

The resentful energy flows through him, and he surrenders himself to it, letting all of his anger and fear turn to power.  The surface of the river breaks, water splashes, and water ghouls reach their putrid, rotting hands out of the water.

Jingyi doesn’t look at the water ghouls; he looks at the cultivators.  The men who had lied to them, trapped them, betrayed them, and hurt them.  Are the men who beat Sizhui unconscious here? Because Jingyi will make sure they never see another sunrise.

The men start to scream as water ghouls and angry river spirits attack.  Somewhere under the resentful energy rushing through his meridians and his own burning anger, part of him shakes.  

Jingyi doesn’t like to hurt people, but these people want Sizhui dead, and the resentful energy in his body sings a song of revenge and retribution that drowns out his own misgivings.  

Jingyi lowers the xiao and watches as the men fight for their lives.  Swords flash in the moonlight and cries of pain and grunts of exertion carry over the water.  Jingyi’s hold on the resentful energy weakens, and his determination to murder them with it.

“Go back to Baling, and I will let you go,” he calls.  “Leave us alone, and you can live.”

“We don’t make deals with demonic cultivators,” one man yells, even as a pair of water ghouls try to haul him off the boat.

“I warned you,” Jingyi says, sounding tired, and his hands tighten on the xiao.

“You’re beyond saving,” the old Jin cultivator spits over the splashing sound of someone being dragged off a boat.  There’s a splatter of black ghoul blood on his cheek.  “The Wen dog already corrupted you.”

Jingyi laughs, but it’s cold and nothing at all like his usual, sunny laugh.  

“No,” he says, “that’s where you are wrong.  Sizhui has always been the good one, the better of us.”

He raises the xiao to his lips and lets the resentful energy tear through him.  Jingyi remembers exactly the tune that Senior Wei has played on Dafan mountain, and he plays it now.  The music of the xiao echoes over the water, somehow unbroken by either the screams of men or the moans of ghouls.

Slowly, Jingyi lowers the xiao.  He doesn’t need to keep playing.  The ghosts and ghouls hardly need his direction now.  Instead, Jingyi takes up the oars and turns his back on the chaos unfolding on the river and doesn’t dare to let himself look back.  Each motion of his arms carries them further away from the massacre, but the sounds follow them, carried over the water.

Jingyi just keeps rowing.  The resentful energy ebs and fades, but he won’t let himself regret, not when their lives are on the line.

The night goes silent at last, and time seems to drag. The moon and stars slowly trace their paths across the sky as one hour becomes two and then four.

Jingyi can feel exhaustion building.  He’s grateful, for once, to Gusu Lan’s strict training that keeps him rowing for hours even when his muscles begin to strain and the lack of sleep begins to wear on him.  If he had his spiritual energy, he could refresh himself, could keep going for much longer, but right now he’s pushing against his body’s physical limits.

Whenever he thinks about stopping, he looks down at Sizhui, still asleep on his lap, and the bruising on his gentle face.  He has to get Sizhui as far away from Baling as he possibly can, so he keeps rowing.

He keeps rowing until the sky begins to lighten with the first hint of morning.  True sunrise is still a while away, but they need to get off the water before it reaches them.  In the daylight, there is nowhere to hide on the river.  It’s best if they are gone by the time the first fishermen go out for the day, so there are no witnesses.  

He waits until he spies a stretch of river bank covered with trees before guiding the boat to the edge.  His arms feel oddly leaden when he stores the oars.  He ties a rope to one of the branches hanging over the river before hefting Sizhui over his shoulder and clambering onto shore. It’s not a graceful moment, with his body stiff all over and heavy with exhaustion and Sizhui’s weight throwing his balance off center, but he gets both of them onto land and staggers several steps into the woods before carefully setting Sizhui down and retreating to set the boat free and shove it into the river.  

He watches the boat slowly ease into current for a long moment, wishing the river was faster, but there’s nothing he can do.  Then he remembers something that he’d seen Senior Wei do before.  Plucking a leaf from a tree, he reaches out for resentful spirits until he finds the right one.  His attempt to bind the spirit and the leaf together is clumsy, but when he tosses the leaf into the boat, the weight of the spirit starts to sink it.  It continues to drift down the river, slowly riding lower and lower.

He doesn’t wait to see if it sinks.  

He lifts Sizhui once again, and he feels heavier than he had when Jingyi carried him out of the cell.  Even with Gusu Lan’s strict training, Jingyi’s body has limits, especially when he can’t access his spiritual energy.  Luckily, he doesn’t need to go far, just far enough that no one on the river can see or hear them.

When he’s certain they are as safe as they can be, he kneels down, moving Sizhui to his lap and finally taking out the medicine that Zizhen had given them.  He administers the medicine and waits, impatiently, for a few minutes.  He checks Sizhui’s pulse, fixes his hair, then checks his pulse again, once more wishing he could use his spiritual energy to evaluate Sizhui’s injuries, and cursing the man who’d blocked his spiritual energy.  Or rather, cursing his ghost, since he is now at the bottom of the river.

Gently, Jingyi shakes Sizhui’s shoulders.

“A-Yuan,” he says.  “A-yuan, please.”

Sizhui stirs, and Jingyi almost sobs with relief as his eyes open.  His eyes are a little dazed, but he is awake.  He takes a deep breath and immediately starts coughing.  Jingyi hastily helps prop him up as he hacks up blackish blood.  Jingyi gently rubs his back as he takes several heaving breaths.

“Are you alright?” Jingyi asks gently as Sizhui wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

“Jingyi!” Sizhui says, jerking upright and almost hitting Jingyi’s face with the back of his head.  “You’re alright!”

He throws his arms around Jingyi’s neck.  Jingyi blinks in surprise but wraps his arms around Sizhui, pulling him closer.

“I was scared they were going to hurt you,” Sizhui says, speaking into Jingyi’s neck.

“Me?” Jingyi asks, incredulously.  “You are the one who is hurt, Sizhui, not me.”

Jingyi’s mind flashes back to the forest outside of Baling and the trap that the other cultivators had laid for them.  

“Don’t hurt him!” Sizhui screams.  “I’ll come with you, just don’t hurt him.”

The men holding Jingyi’s arms try to shove him to the ground, but Jingyi thrashes against them.  They can’t take Sizhui.

“Jingyi, don’t fight them.  It’s not worth it!”

Jingyi’s arms tighten around Sizhui.

“I’m sorry for scaring you, but I couldn’t just let them take you. I couldn’t.”

Sizhui just squeezes Jingyi harder.

“Are you okay?” Jingyi asks again.  “You were unconscious for quite a while.  Zizhen tried to heal you, and I gave you some medicine, but they blocked my spiritual energy so I can’t do anything.”

“I’m alright,” Sizhui says, pulling back enough to look Jingyi in the face.  “Just bruises.”

“Good,” Jingyi says, and it’s a sigh of relief as much as a word.  He leans his forehead against Sizhui’s.

“I was so scared when I saw–,” he cuts off.  He doesn’t want to talk about it.  He doesn’t want to think about the sight of Sizhui unconscious on the stone floor, sprawled like a doll discarded by a careless child.

“I’m alright,” Sizhui says, soothingly.    

Jingyi takes a deep breath and then forces himself to sit upright.

“Can you walk? Can you run?” Jingyi asks.  “We aren’t safe yet.”

Sizhui nods, and the two of them get to their feet.  Jingyi keeps a hand out in case Sizhui falters, but he seems steady.  

Sizhui looks around him, taking in their surroundings for the first time.

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere west of Baling.”

Sizhui’s brow furrows.  “How–” 

“I’ll tell you as we walk,” Jingyi says, taking Sizhui’s hand and tugging him forward.  “We need to keep moving.”

“Right,” Sizhui says, shaking his head a little.  Jingyi’s brow furrows.  Sizhui is usually more clear headed.  He hopes it’s the extremely bewildering situation and not a head injury.

“We should probably head away from the river,” Jingyi says.  “That’s where they will search first.”

Sizhui nods in agreement.  They start walking, and Jingyi starts talking, beginning with Zizhen breaking into the room. Jingyi has only gotten as far as knocking out the guards with Zizhen when Sizhui interrupts him.

“Jingyi, are you sure you are alright?” 

Jingyi can feel exhaustion weighing him down with every step.  Either the adrenaline is fading now that he knows Sizhui is more or less okay or it simply isn’t enough to keep him going anymore. 

“I’m just tired,” Jingyi says.  “I can’t access my spiritual energy, and I haven’t slept.”

“Maybe we should stop for you to rest?”

Jingyi shakes his head.  “We don’t have time for that.  More of them are going to come after us.  They are probably already after us.”

Sizhui frowns, obviously recognizing the truth in his words, but not feeling happy about it.  Sizhui’s hand tightens in his, and Jingyi feels spiritual energy flow into him, easing some of the weariness in his body.  Sizhui’s frown deepens as he senses whatever they had done to block Jingyi’s spiritual energy.

“Save your energy,” Jingyi says.  

Sizhui shakes his head stubbornly. His brow furrows in concentration, and Jingyi can feel something happening, but he has no idea what Sizhui is doing.

“I don’t know how to fix it,” Sizhui says vexedly after a long silence.

“It should go away on its own,” Jingyi says.  It’s not as if they had crushed his golden core.  He shudders slightly at the thought.  

“Still,” Sizhui says.

For several minutes, the only sound is the crunch of leaves and twigs under their feet.

“Wait,” Sizhui says, “more?  What do you mean more will come after us.  I thought you said Zizhen drugged everyone.”

Jingyi swallows and nods.  He didn’t want to have this conversation already.

“He tried to,” Jingyi says.  “He managed to knock everyone out long enough for us to get you out of the cell and to get to the boats.  He tried to heal you, but we didn’t have time to do it properly, so he gave me the medicine, and I carried you to the boat.

“I headed southwest.  I thought they would expect us to go north to Gusu, so I went the other way.  Unfortunately, Zizhen didn’t manage to drug everyone, and a handful of cultivators chased after us.”

Jingyi falls silent.

“Jingyi,” Sizhui says softly, “what happened?”

“I couldn’t fight them myself,” Jingyi says.  “Not without my spiritual energy, and not without leaving you alone, so I… I used demonic cultivation.  I called up the spirits of the dead from the river.”

He doesn’t look at Sizhui; he doesn’t want to see judgment in those familiar eyes.

“Is that why you are wearing your xiao?” he asks, softly.

“Yes.”

The silence stretches out, but Sizhui doesn’t pull away from Jingyi.

“They will want you dead too now.”

“I know,” Jingyi says.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

Jingyi finally dares a glance at Sizhui, who is frowning, but there is no trace of anger or disgust in his face.  

“We are in this together,” Jingyi says.  “If they hurt you, they hurt me.  If they kill you, they kill me.  Whether they are after me or not doesn’t matter, when they are already after you.”

“Jing-er,” Sizhui says softly, and then he surprises Jingyi by throwing his arms around him and kissing him.

Jingyi’s surprise only lasts a moment, but Sizhui is already pulling away by the time he reacts. Still, Jingyi loops his arms around Sizhui’s waist, letting himself take comfort in Sizhui’s presence, if only for a few moments.

“Thank you,” Sizhui says.

“I love you,” Jingyi says.  

“I’m sorry that you were dragged into this,” Sizhui says.  “The thought of you getting hurt because of me…”

Jingyi shushes him.  “None of this is your fault.  None of it.”

He kisses Sizhui, softly.  His hand brushes over the familiar curve of Sizhui’s cheek, gentle as a butterfly and careful of the bruises.  He lingers over the kiss longer than he should, drawing strength from Sizhui’s touch.

“We’ll get through this,” he says when he pulls back.

“Together,” Sizhui says.

“Together.”

They start off once again through the trees and away from the water.  They can’t run through the trees, and they need to preserve energy because they will certainly be running for days, but they push themselves through the woods as fast as they dare until they break out from between the trees.  

They hesitate under the cover of the branches and look around.  The forest here gives way to farm land almost as far as the eye can see.  There are a smattering of farmsteads and small copse of trees, but nothing resembling true cover.  

Jingyi looks at Sizhui who is staring over the open land with the same rising dread that is filling him.

“It’s the only way,” Sizhui says.  “We have to head to Yiling.”

“Following the river would take us south and we need to go north,” Jingyi agrees.

Sizhui nods somberly.

Jingyi looks down at himself, at the white Gusu Lan robes, so painfully identifiable.  That’s when his tired brain remembers the qiankun pouch that Zizhen had given them.

“Wait,” Jingyi says, going digging for it.  “We need to change our clothes.  It might buy us a little extra time if they are looking for disciples dressed in white.”

Sizhui nods, and they move back into the woods a bit to quickly change. Jingyi’s hands hover over his forehead ribbon, and he can see Sizhui facing the same dilemma.  The forehead ribbons identify them as Gusu Lan, but it feels wrong to remove them.  Jingyi lowers his hand.

“If they are close enough to see the forehead ribbon, we are already in trouble,” Sizhui says, and Jingyi nods his agreement.

Jingyi picks up his sword, which he’d pulled from his sleeve before undressing. He looks down at it for only a moment before shoving the sword into Sizhui’s hands.

“This is your–”

“I can’t use it,” Jingyi says.  “Please take it.”

Sizhui’s graceful fingers close around the hilt of the sword.

“You should run,” Jingyi says, knowing that Sizhui won’t do it.  “Get on the sword and go–”

“No.”

“They are after you.”

“They are after us ,” Sizhui disagrees, and Jingyi knows that it’s true.  Knew as soon as he’d drowned the other cultivators in the river that he could never turn back.

Jingyi wants to argue, but he knows that Sizhui won’t go, and they don’t have time or energy to waste arguing.  So he lets it go.

Carefully, looking around them as if someone is going to burst out of the foliage any moment and attack them, they leave the treeline behind.  They jog over open land until they reach the road.  Jingyi wants to run, wants to get as far away from Baling as he possibly can as fast as he can, but the heaviness in his muscles warns him against it.

Jingyi curses the man who’d blocked his spiritual energy again; he’s holding Sizhui back.  If they both had their spiritual energy, they could run; they could fly. As it is, they move far too slowly, but Jingyi knows better than to suggest that Sizhui leave him and go on ahead.

It’s Jingyi who spots the cultivators on the horizon several hours past noon.  He swears as his heart jerks in fear.  Sizhui whips around, staring at the sky behind them.  His face does pale, and the bruising on his jaw stands out in stark relief.

Instinctively, Jingyi reaches out for Sizhui’s hand. 

“You know that I would do anything for you? Right? I won’t let them hurt you again.”

Sizhui squeezes his hand.

“We’re wildly outnumbered.” His voice is calm, logical, but Jingyi can see the fear in his eyes.  They both know what happens if they get captured a second time.

“We are going to make it to Qishan. I swear it,” Jingyi says.  There is no doubt in his voice.  He’ll shatter his soul to dust before he lets them take Sizhui again.

Sizhui swallows hard, but he doesn’t argue with Jingyi.  

“I love you,” is all he says.

They look back at the horizon, and the crowd of cultivators drawing closer by the instant.  Sizhui takes a shaky breath, but his calm expression isn’t shaken. 

Jingyi releases Sizhui’s hand to raise his xiao to his lips.  He won’t wait for them to arrive this time.  There won’t be any attempts at negotiation, not with a Wen and a demonic cultivator.

He starts to play, and almost immediately he senses the resentful energy stirring.  It’s easier this time to urge it into motion, as if it recognizes his touch.  Jingyi glances at the Sizhui, at the fear in his eyes and the bruising on his face, and lets the resentful energy pour through him.  

All around them, vengeful spirits coalesce, waiting.  Jingyi can feel their anger and his own, and the way the two threaten to become one thing.  He doesn’t count how many spirits are around them, he just keeps reaching, keeps calling for more.  He doesn’t just need to defeat the cultivators coming after them, he needs to do so quickly, before they can get close.

The resentful energy pushes against him, wanting to burst free, but he keeps tight hold of it, waiting as the cultivators get closer.  The screams and howls of the dead and the damned fill his ears and his heart, but he keeps his gaze on the cultivators in the sky.  When the cultivators are close enough that they start drawing bows, Jingyi lets go.

The cries of the spirits are so loud in his ears that he can’t hear the sound of the xiao.  Moments later, shouts from the living reach his ears as well.  

“He’s using demonic cultivation!”

“Kill them both!”

He can see arrows knocked to strings, and he shoulders Sizhui out of the way as the first arrow flies.  His heart is pounding in his chest, and he lets his fear become power as the sound of the xiao grows unnaturally loud.  He’s not entirely sure what he’s playing anymore, only that it’s what needs to be played.  

Sizhui draws his sword– Jingyi’s sword–using it to deflect the arrows that come too close.  Right now, they are at the very edge of the archers range, and more arrows go wide than strike true, but in moments that won't be true anymore.

Faster!   Jingyi urges the spirits.

The first cultivator falls from the sky with a scream of fear that breaks through the music and the sounds of the dead.  Sizhui flinches, his movements falter, and an arrow strikes his shoulder.  It’s a glancing blow, barely a hit, but as soon as blood blooms on the fabric, Jingyi’s eyes flash red.

The sound of the xiao becomes a scream of fury.  

More and more cultivators fall from the sky.  Sizhui watches them with wide eyes.  

Jingyi reaches out to him, letting the music pause– the spirits don’t stop fighting.  He pulls Sizhui to him, turning his face away from the fight.

“Don’t look.”

“They’re going to die,” Sizhui whispers.

“They die or we do,” Jingyi says, settling his fingers back into their familiar places on the xiao.  “And I can’t lose you.”

With one arm looped around Sizhui, holding him closer, Jingyi puts the xiao back to his lips.  

He pours everything he can into it.  He wants this over; he wants them to be safe.  He wishes he had something more powerful than vengeful spirits to unleash, something or someone, someone like the Ghost General.

Jingyi has a wild, crazy idea.  He’s not insane enough to think he could control Senior Wen, and he doesn’t want to, but he might, he just might be able to summon him if he’s willing to come.  It’s an absurd idea; Senior Wen could be anywhere in China for all he knows, but he has to try.

The sound of the battle is so loud that it should overpower the xiao, but somehow, the music carries through it all, an uncomfortably melodious counterpart to the screams of pain and fear.

Time stretches and warps around Jingyi as he plays.  Every terrible moment seems to stretch on forever as men die and fall from the sky, but then, all at once it’s over.  There are no more screams, and when Jingyi lowers the xiao, the world is horribly silent.

As soon as he releases his hold on it, the resentful energy floods out of him, leaving him before a score of broken bodies.  He has to look away, and his stomach churns at the sight, but he won’t regret it.  He refuses to regret protecting Sizhui.

Sizhui is clutching Jingyi’s robes in white knuckles hands, but Jingyi doesn’t remember him doing that.  Jingyi turns and kisses Sizhui’s cheek.

“Come on,” he says, pulling Sizhui away from the bodies.  “Don’t look.”

Sizhui’s face is pale, and his shoulder is still bleeding.

“Sizhui, your shoulder,” he says.

Sizhui swallows. 

“It’s not deep.”

“Let me see,” Jingyi says, carefully pulling the layers of his robes away from the wound.  

The wound is shallow, but it’s still bleeding.  Out of habit, Jingyi tries to pour spiritual energy into the wound to slow the bleeding, and is so surprised when it works that he almost stops.

“Your spiritual energy!” Sizhui says, craning his neck to look at his shoulder.

“Yes,” Jingyi breathes.

Once the bleeding stops, he pulls a waterskin out of his qiankun pouch and cleans the wound before quickly bandaging it.

“We have to keep going,” he says as he shoves the rest of the bandages and the water into the qiankun pouch.

“We should fly,” Sizhui says.  “It’s the fastest way.  We’re on the open road anyway.”

Jingyi nods, and Sizhui hands him his sword.  They both climb onto the sword, and then shoot off towards the sky.

They fly as fast as they dare.  They need to get as far from Baling as they can while there is still daylight.  Night time will slow them down, but it will slow their pursuers even more.  Carrying a second person on the sword is draining, and they have to take turns, but now that Jingyi can use his spiritual energy, they can go for hours.  They fly into the night, navigating by the stars, until they are weaving in the air with exhaustion.  

They curl up under the scant cover of a row of trees at the border of a farm and take turns keeping watch.  They manage to eke out a few hours of sleep each, and then force themselves back on the sword.

They keep pushing on towards Yiling, not sure how far they still have to go.  Jingyi doesn’t know at what point the Jianghu will give up chasing them.  Will they drive them all the way to the Burial Mounds? To the Nightless City? 

“Down,” Sizhui says frantically, “go down.”

Jingyi responds immediately, and the pair of them plummet out of the air until Jingyi brings them to an abrupt halt as close to the ground as he dares, and they tumble off rather ungracefully.  Jingyi glances over his shoulder to see the faint outline of figures in the distant sky.  Next to him, Sizhui is frantically looking around them for somewhere to hide, but there’s nothing but open farmland.  There are scattered farm houses around, but they are all more than a li away, and Jingyi isn’t sure they could reach one in time.

“How did they find us so quickly? Sizhui asks, eyes also catching on the nearest building.

Jingyi doesn’t know, and he doesn’t waste air answering.

They start running.  

Jingyi can feel the deep fatigue from lack of sleep weighing down his limbs, and beside him, Sizhui’s face has shifted to a grimace of pain.  Anger lances through Jingyi as he steals glances at the approaching cultivators.  

They keep glancing over their shoulders as they pelt down the road, but neither of them puts words to what is rapidly becoming obvious.  They aren’t going to make it.  They might make it to the farm, but not before the cultivators see them, assuming they haven’t already been spotted.  Reaching the farm might give them some cover, make it harder for them to be surrounded, but it would mean that they are exhausted and without defense.

They keep running.  

Jingyi feels like a prey animal, tearing through the wild with cultivators hunting him.  He jerks his xiao free of his belt, gripping it in his hand.  He can hear the sound of voices carried on the wind behind them.  They’ve been seen.

Sizhui suddenly skids to a halt, and Jingyi jerks to a stop a moment later, whipping around, scared that Sizhui has been shot again.

“We can’t,” Sizhui says, sucking down air.  “People live there.  Children might live there.”

He doesn’t need to say it.  They can’t bring death and blood down on an innocent family.

“We’ve already been seen,” Jingyi says.  “It doesn’t matter.”

He puts the xiao to his lips, reaching out for resentful energy.  The terror on Sizhui’s face lends strength to his anger.  The resentful energy fills Jingyi, and it’s easier than ever for him to stir the lingering spirits to his will.  His call reaches a family grave not far away, and he’s too lost in the resentful energy to feel anything more than the faintest twinge of guilt as he calls the dead from their graves.  He’s not sure they will make it to the road in time to help, but he doesn’t care.  

Beside him, Sizhui has a white-knuckled grip on Jingyi’s sword.

“Why won’t they just let us be?” he whispers.  Jingyi can’t answer, and he doesn’t have an answer to give even if he could.

Jingyi doesn’t look away from the cultivators flying towards them.  He can see more colors than just those of Lanling Jin, Baling Ouyang, and Pingyang Yao.  Distantly, he wonders who else has joined the chase, who else has turned against them.  His anger sharpens.  They had done nothing to deserve this.  Sizhui had done nothing to deserve this.

The cultivators land on the ground this time, instead of attacking them from the air, and Jingyi arrays the spirits he’s summoned between them and their attackers.  The spirits fight against his hold, wanting to tear into the cultivators.

“Leave us be,” Sizhui yells.  “We’re leaving.  We will go west and never come back.  I swear it.  Just please , leave us be.”

Jingyi hates the sound of Sizhui begging.  His eyes flash, and the spirits roar, but he lets the music die, so that Sizhui’s voice can be heard.

“We don’t make deals with Wen dogs,” a man shouts.  

“Don’t talk to him like that!” Jingyi snarls.  His control on the spirits slips for a moment, and they lurch towards the cultivators, who take a half step back, with a howl of anger.  

“We don’t want to hurt you.  We never wanted any of this,” Sizhui says, and Jingyi can hear the anguish in his voice, but Jingyi isn’t so sure about himself; his thoughts are stained with violence.

“Then surrender yourselves!” someone yells.

Jingyi snorts in derision.  “So you can kill us?”

“Don’t bother trying to reason with them,” another man yells.  

Jingyi had been thinking the same thing.  He looks at Sizhui, whose eyes are dark with anguish.  Sizhui doesn’t want to see these men killed, but they don’t have a choice.

“Why won’t they listen?” Sizhui asks, just loud enough for Jingyi to hear.  Despite his words, he stows Jingyi’s swords and summons his guqin.  Jingyi hadn’t realized he still had it.

Beyond the wall of spirits, the cultivators are getting restless, edging closer and closer. 

Jingyi just shakes his head.  He raises the xiao back to his lips.

One of the men points at him, yelling an alarm, but it’s too late for them to do anything about it.  The music swells, and the spirits roil and storm, but Jingyi doesn’t release them yet.  He waits.  He waits until the first arrow is loosed towards them, and then he releases it all.  The vengeful howls of the spirits and the low groans of the approaching fierce corpses almost eclipse the sound of the flute.

The resonant tones of the guqin echo around them, but it’s not something that Jingyi is familiar with.  He was never talented enough to be allowed near the Book of Turmoil.  

The screams of men join the cacophony as the cultivators begin to press into the wall of spirits.  The cultivators get slowly closer to Sizhui and Jingyi, and Jingyi redoubles his efforts, reaching further out and summoning more spirits to him.

The resentful energy surges through him, threatening to carry him away, and he knows he’s pushing his limits.  He’s not the Yiling Patriarch after all.  But he doesn’t stop.  He feeds the spirits his own resentment.  The spirits might tear him apart if he continues, but if he gives up, the cultivators will kill them both.

The world seems distant, even Sizhui who is close enough to touch might as well be on another plane.

A force of resentful energy so strong that it makes Jingyi miss a note appears behind him and begins to grow closer.  His instinct is to reach out, to summon that source towards them, but he can sense the iron will at the core of that resentful energy and knows that he would break before it did.  Jingyi’s mind is so focused on controlling the demonic cultivation instead of letting it control him, that he doesn’t immediately realize what it must mean.  

There are only three fierce corpses this powerful, and Chifeng-zun is buried under Guanyin Temple.  

Jingyi dares a glance over his shoulder.  A single figure stands in the distance; there are no swords strapped to his back.  Relief so strong that Jingyi’s knees buckle washes through him.

He dares to stop the music.

“Sizhui,” he says hastily, grabbing Sizhui and pushing him behind him.

“What?” Sizhui's eyes are confused and wet with tears.  

“Senior Wen,” Jingyi says, his voice strained.  The spirits under his control thrash, trying to be free.  “Go!”

Jingyi shoves Sizhui, gently, and puts the xiao back to his lips.  He doesn’t have time for any more words, not with the resentful energy clawing at him, trying to wrest control away from him.

Sizhui’s eyes lock on the figure in the distance, and he starts to run, banishing his guqin in a single, well-practiced motion.  Jingyi shifts, keeping his body between Sizhui and their enemies as best he can.  

“Uncle Ning!” Sizhui screams.  “Uncle Ning, help!”

Jingyi feels the resentful energy behind him surge in response, and he forces himself to focus on the battle before him. 

There are dead cultivators on the ground, but there are many more still fighting.  At least, they are too busy to shoot at Sizhui.

“A-Yuan?!” That’s Senior Wen’s voice.  He’s much closer now; closer than any human could possibly be.

“Uncle Ning, please!  They’re going to kill us.”

Take him away, Jingyi silently begs.  

He doesn’t think that Senior Wen can hear him.  Jingyi doesn’t dare touch the storm of vengeful energy that is Senior Wen.  He’s already managing as much as he can handle.

Senior Wen, take him somewhere safe, somewhere far away from here.

Jingyi knows in his heart of hearts that Sizhui would never let that happen.  Sizhui would never abandon him, not even to save his own life.  He still hopes.

Senior Wen moves towards him, like a storm rolling out towards the sea.  Jingyi can now keenly sense the resentful energy that he’d never quite been able to believe lived behind Senior Wen’s gentle face.

“The Ghost General!” 

“He’s summoned the Ghost General!” 

Jingyi would laugh if he could.  Him ? He could never have summoned the Ghost General.  He’d never even thought about using demonic cultivation before he’d been locked in that room in Baling.  

In the next moment, Senior Wen is standing beside him.  His eyes have gone black, and his undead face is eerily blank and calm.  He holds the long, heavy chains that had once been used to bind him the way a man might hold a whip.  

“You should leave,” Senior Wen says.  He hardly sounds like himself.  All of his gentleness is gone.  If Jingyi wasn’t filled with rage and hatred, he would have shuddered in fear.  Instead, his heart almost seems to sing, resonating with the fierce protectiveness in Senior Wen’s voice.  Sizhui is behind them, and they will not fail.  

“They are under the protection of Qishan Wen and you will not touch them so long as I am here,” Senior Wen tells the cultivators.

We made it, Jingyi thinks desperately.  We made it after all.

“Qishan Wen is dead!” a man yells.  Jingyi can’t tell them apart anymore.  The world is nothing but the roar of resentful energy, and the knowledge that he cannot fail.

“I am,” Senior Wen says agreeably.  “But you will not hurt these boys.  Go home if you want to live.”

“You dare to threaten us!”

Senior Wen moves so fast that Jingyi can’t follow it, wielding the heavy chains as if they weigh nothing at all.  A man screams, but it’s buried in the other sounds of the fight.  

The fight is over so quickly that it leaves Jingyi reeling.  Senior Wen tears through the remaining cultivators, who are already bloodied and embattled.  One moment, the battle is raging on, and the next, everyone is dead.  

Jingyi lowers the xiao, trying to release his hold on the resentful energy, but instead of flooding out of him, the way it had before, it lingers, digging in its claws.  Jingyi focuses on his breath, on his golden core, and the ruinous energy bleeds away at last.

“Jingyi! Jingyi!”

Only then does he realize that Sizhui is calling his name.  He opens his eyes, though he doesn’t remember closing them, to see Sizhui’s face not far from his, pale with worry.

“Sizhui,” Jingyi says.  His voice sounds hoarse as if he had been screaming.

“You’re okay,” Sizhui says and throws his arms around Jingyi.  “I thought… I thought…”

I thought I might have lost you. He doesn’t have to say it.

“I’m here,” Jingyi says, tightening his arms around Sizhui’s waist.  “I would never leave you.  Never.”

Even if the resentful energy shattered his soul, the pieces of it would remain right here with Sizhui.

Jingyi looks over Sizhui’s shoulder to Senior Wen, whose eyes have returned to normal.  

“You saved us,” Jingyi says.  

“You called for me,” Senior Wen says.

“I hoped,” Jingyi says, squeezing Sizhui even tighter.  “I hoped you might hear.”

Senior Wen just nods.  He looks from Jingyi and Sizhui, still clinging to each other, to the pile of dead cultivators.  Jingyi follows his gaze.  His stomach twists uncomfortably, but the deep horror that should fill him at the sight of so many dead men feels distant and out of reach.

‘Demonic Cultivation damages your mind and soul.  There is no exception. ’  Jingyi has been told that time and time again.  He should be disgusted with himself, but Sizhui is safe, and he can’t bring himself to feel anything more than a sliver of guilt.

“You two need to keep going,” Senior Wen says.  “You aren’t safe yet.  There are no cultivation sects here, not since Qishan Wen fell, but we are still far from Yiling and even further from the Nightless City.  They are clearly willing to follow you here; they may well follow you even farther.”

Jingyi nods and forces himself to let go of Sizhui.  Sizhui steps back, but he takes Jingyi’s hand.  Jingyi can feel him trembling as he looks at the aftermath.

“Come on,” Jingyi says, trying to turn him away from the grisly sight.  

“Uncle Ning?” Sizhui asks.

“I won’t be far, A-Yuan,” Senior Wen says.  “I need to take care of this.”

“We’ll be okay,” Jingyi says to Sizhui, pulling him down the road towards Yiling.  “We’re safe now.”

They aren’t done running yet.  They haven’t even reached Yiling, let alone the heart of Qishan Wen territory and The Nightless City.  But Senior Wen is here, and they are safe.