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A/N: I’m back.
This story inserts itself every time I’m on a break lately, so I’m like okay, let’s do a time-travel but with a twist where Wei Ying is adopted into a small sect with death affinity, and actually grows up loved, semi adjusted, but still slightly unhinged and exposed to Lan Zhan’s beauty early in life, with chaotic shenanigans and an equally chaotic uncle-Mentor in the mix. As always, all grammar/spelling errors are mine coz--- No Beta, I disintegrate like the Yiling Lao Tzu’s soul. Will fix if there’s time. Prologue and Chapter 1. Also shorter chapters, so probably more digestible... Comments and kudos are appreciated.
Tissue Warning: Heavy Angst! For this chapter's last part least. I promise it'll get better. This was more my style way back when. Hahaha! Enjoy. Sorry for the heartbreak in advance.
Ash Born Willow by xzyryzen
Prologue: The Petition in Heaven
The battlefield lay silent.
Where once the Burial Mounds had burned with the cries of men and the clash of steel, now only ash remained, mingling with drifting snow. Charred talismans fluttered half-burned from blackened stakes; shattered blades lay crooked in the mud; the last smoke from the funeral pyre of a legend curled into the gray winter sky.
Among the ruin, scattered bones and broken banners whispered of the siege’s fury. And at its center, where the Yiling Patriarch had made his final stand, nothing remained but drifting motes of light. It’s what was left of a soul torn apart by righteous blades and righteous fury.
But not all fragments vanish. Not when someone is searching.
A ripple moved across the scorched soil, like wind where there was no wind. Out of the haze walked a solitary figure: robes patched and dust-stained, hair loose, lips tilted in a careless smile that did not reach his eyes. To mortal eyes he a wandering trickster of no great renown. But immortals knew the truth, this was Mingxuan Zhenjun, True Lord of Bright Mystery, who had walked the heavens when stars were still young.
He stood still, letting silence press close, listening to the faint thrum of something broken and fading. Then he knelt.
With careful fingers, he brushed across the soiled ground. A thin glow shimmered at his touch, threads of light surfacing like minnows from a dark stream. Fragments of soul, ragged and shivering, resisting dissolution. They trembled at the edge of oblivion, as though afraid to linger but more afraid to let go.
Mingxuan’s expression softened. “There you are.”
He moved slowly, reverently, each gesture weaving the air with celestial light. One by one, sparks lifted and drifted toward him. Some were sharp, aching with anger and grief. Others were soft, full of laughter, the memory of a child chasing fireflies. Together they painted a kaleidoscope of all that Wei Wuxian had been. His brilliance, defiance, tenderness and fury.
He drew them gently into a vessel of jade, translucent and veined with starlight. As the fragments nestled inside, the vessel pulsed faintly, alive with a fragile heartbeat not yet extinguished.
“You burned too brightly, little one,” Mingxuan murmured, voice low and roughened by sorrow. “But I will not allow the heavens to forget you.”
Snow hissed against scorched stone. For a long moment he remained kneeling there, hand resting over the vessel, as though in silent mourning. Then, with a sweep of his sleeve, the ruin dissolved into mist.
The next breath he drew was not of ash and smoke, but of sandalwood and cold jade. Pillars of white stone soared around him, carved with dragons and phoenixes. The vaulted sky shimmered with constellations. He had stepped into the Heavenly Palace, into the Court of Heaven.
And in his palm, the vessel glowed faintly, carrying the remnants of a mortal who had dared to defy fate.
The floor gleamed like a mirror. Rows upon rows of immortals sat in their appointed stations, all robed in starlight, serene as statues, their gazes sharp as blades.
At their center sat the Jade Emperor, enthroned on clouds, his presence vast and unyielding.
Into this august silence, Mingxuan Zhenjun strode forward. Dust still clung to his tattered traveler’s robes, an affront to the immaculate court, yet he did not bow nor pause. With a sweep of his sleeve, he cast the jade vessel to the floor. The sound rang out like struck bronze, reverberating through the hall.
The vessel rolled once, twice, and came to rest at the foot of the dais. Within it flickered motes of broken light, fragile as candle flames, shivering against the void.
“Immortal Lords,” Mingxuan said, voice like thunder over a sea, “I’ve come to demand justice.”
A ripple moved through the gathered ranks. Murmurs rose, sharp, incredulous.
“Justice? For a demonic cultivator?”
“A mortal who defied the righteous path, who dabbled in the dark arts and weaponized resentful energy?”
“He reaped what he sowed. That is justice.”
Cold eyes turned toward the vessel, disdain unhidden. Some immortals already waved their hands dismissively, as if to scatter the fragments to final dissolution.
Mingxuan’s expression darkened. His eyes, swirling as a raging storm, swept the hall. “You call it justice? To cast away one who was only ever a child of fate, broken by the world before he had a chance to grow? Tell me, which of you could walk the road he walked and not stumble?”
The hall grew tense. Some frowned, others turned away, but none interrupted.
“He grew up in poverty after his parents died,” Mingxuan pressed, each word a blade. “He knew hunger before he knew kindness. He begged on the streets fighting to survive for years. He was beaten, scorned, abandoned. Yet still he smiled. Still he reached out to others with open hands. That was Wei Ying’s heart.”
A murmur ran through the ranks, softer this time, uneasy.
Mingxuan’s voice rose. “And when he found shelter, was he guided? No. He was tolerated, barely. He was mocked for his brightness, punished for his joy. His genius was seen as danger, his heart as weakness. You say he turned to darkness of his own choosing? No. He carved a path no one else dared tread, because he had no other road left.”
The fragments within the vessel flared faintly, as if echoing his words.
“He gave his golden core,his very life’s foundation, not for himself, but for one he called his brother. He destroyed his own future to save another. Tell me, is that the act of an evil man?”
The murmurs broke into a stir, the arguments whispered behind long sleeves.
Mingxuan pressed on, voice iron now. “He raised a shield for the weak. He fought the Wens when they terrorized the world, and fought for the civilian Wens when the world would see them exterminated. He protected the innocent, though it cost him his name, his honor, his life. Yes, he made mistakes. Yes, he strayed. But evil? No. Wei Ying was never evil. He was human. Too human in a world that showed him no mercy.”
At that, silence crashed down again.
The Jade Emperor, still and vast as a mountain, lowered his gaze. His eyes, fathomless as the night sky, fixed on Mingxuan. “And what is it you seek, Zhenjun? Do you ask us to absolve him of his deeds?”
Mingxuan dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead to the jade floor. “I seek not absolution. I seek a chance.” His voice shook, not with weakness but with conviction. “Return him to the world. Let him be raised by hands that cherish, in a place where his gifts are not shackled but guided. Grant him the childhood fate denied him. Let him live once more, and let him be loved.”
The vessel flickered, its fragile light pulsing like a heartbeat, as if the soul within strained toward the promise.
The court waited, breathless, for the judgment of heaven.
A ripple of debate spread through the ranks of immortals. Voices overlapped like crashing waves.
Some rang stern, edged with iron blades.
“To alter fate is to defy the Mandate of Heaven.”
“A mortal cannot be coddled for his mistakes. The balance of karma must stand.”
Others softened, murmuring like wind through pines.
“Yet the boy’s soul still clings. Is that not proof of an unfinished destiny?”
“He was wronged as much as he wronged others. To return him would not be indulgence, but redress.”
“Perhaps the heavens themselves planted him as a seed for a new path. Who are we to uproot him before the harvest?”
The hall’s light seemed to waver with the weight of the argument. Above them all, the Jade Emperor remained silent, his gaze unreadable. Only when the voices had exhausted themselves did he raise a single hand.
Silence fell at once.
“It may be done,” he pronounced, his tone carrying the weight of edict, “but only with one condition. If Wei Wuxian is to return, his soul must be cleansed in the Wangchuan River.”
At the name, the hall stirred, the River of Forgetfulness, whose silver waters stripped all memory, all burden, leaving only the barest essence of a soul.
“His past life shall be veiled,” the Emperor continued. “He will not recall his fall, nor his death. Only his truest self shall remain, the spark of who he was before the world broke him.”
The words echoed like bells through the marble pillars.
Mingxuan bowed his head, though his jaw clenched tight. To forget was mercy… but also loss. All the pain, all the lessons, even the loves will be gone, washed away like ink in rain. Yet what was memory weighed against life? Against laughter, freedom, the chance to be held, cherished?
When he raised his eyes, they burned with quiet fire.
“Then so be it,” he said, voice low but steady. “I have failed him once. If Heaven grants him return, I will not turn away again. From time to time, I will walk the earth. I will watch over him.”
The Emperor’s hand descended, sealing the decree like a stroke of fate.
“Then rise, Mingxuan Zhenjun. Go, and deliver this soul through the veil.”
The jade vessel trembled in Mingxuan’s hands. Light spilled upward, streaming like fireflies as the fragments of Wei Ying’s soul lifted free. With careful reverence, he guided them across the threshold of heaven to the Wangchuan’s shore.
The river stretched wide and endless, silver as moonlight, its current carrying whispers of forgotten names and shed regrets. He held the fragments aloft, and they dissolved into its waters, scattering like stars into a flowing sky.
From the depths, the waters shimmered, condensing into a pearl of radiant light. It is the soul reborn, stripped of scars but not of essence. It pulsed once, twice, like a heartbeat eager to live.
Mingxuan closed his hand around it, lifted it high. “Laugh again, little one. Run again. This time, let love find you before sorrow does.”
He opened his fingers, and the light fell like a comet into the mortal realm, vanishing into the weave of fate.
And in time, he would laugh again.
He would run again.
And he would meet the one who would love him most.
In time.
For there are fates that even Heaven cannot touch.
***
Chapter One : Meetings and Partings
The mist clung low to the hills outside Yiling, pale fingers winding between bare-branched trees. A small caravan moved steadily along the rutted road, the ox-carts creaking beneath the weight of lacquered boxes, the air sharp with the faint, resinous scent of spirit-wood.
At the head of the party walked a woman in traveling robes of deep green, embroidered at the hem with curling silver branches. Three children trailed at her side, the eldest girl, composed and watchful despite being only ten; and a pair of bright-eyed twins who darted ahead and fell behind by turns, one clutching a carved whistle, the other carrying a small talisman bundle like a prized treasure.
Behind them, Mu Tian’s voice rang out, hearty and commanding as he directed disciples to keep the carts steady on the uneven road. Though his shoulders were broad, his smile softened his features, and the men obeyed more out of affection than fear.
The sound of footsteps approached from behind. Mu Linghua lifted her head and her eyes widened in recognition. “Cangse?”
“Linghua!” Cangse Sanren beamed, clasping her friend’s hands when they drew near. “Or should I say Mu Zongzhu?”
“None of that,” Mu Linghua scolded. “You are practically family!”
“Who would have thought fate would let us meet here, of all places?” Cangse said.
“Fate has a way of weaving us together,” Mu Linghua replied, smiling with quiet joy. I had been six long years since they have seen each other.
Her three children peeked curiously from behind her sleeves, whispering before stepping forward in a shy row.
At once, they were met with the wide grin of a boy no older than the twins, hair tied in a messy ponytail, cheeks smudged with dust, eyes bright as lantern sparks even in the gray morning.
Mu Tian approached at a brisk stride, bowing low to Cangse and clasping his fists to Wei Changze. “Brother Wei, Sister Wei. At last, Heaven grants me the chance to repay a debt long overdue.”
Wei Changze returned the greeting politely, though he continued to hold the reins of the donkey behind him that was carrying his family’s meager possessions. “You are too generous, Brother Mu.”
Cangse tipped her head, grinning with mischief. “Oh? Still clinging to that story, are you? If I recall, you had more courage than sense that day, charging a yao with nothing but a hunting spear!”
Mu Tian flushed, scratching the back of his neck. “What else was I to do?”
Linghua’s voice was gentler, carrying weight. “If not for you, Tian-ge would not be here. Do not diminish what you gave us, Cangse.”
“Where is Mu Rong?” Cangse asked, scanning the group.
“At home,” Linghua said smiling. “Someone must keep the sect from falling to mischief while Tian-ge carts half our storerooms across the provinces.”
Mu Tian sighed at that but held his tongue. Linghua turned to her children and smiled. “Why don’t you introduce yourselves, my little terrors.”
The children introduced themselves with varying degrees of polish.
The eldest bowed first, posture straight, eyes calm. “Mu Xuilan greets Auntie Cangse, Uncle Wei.”
Cangse’s smile softened. “How polite! You’ve grown into a beautiful young lady already.”
Next came the twins. The boy, Mu Chenyan, stepped forward with too much nervous energy, nearly tripping over his own boots. “Mu Chenyan!” he blurted, before jerking a thumb at his sister.
Mu Chenyao shoved him aside, bowing neatly before chirping, “Mu Chenyao. I am eight years old. Don’t mind him, Auntie, he can’t even tie his own sash without help.”
“Hey!” Chenyan protested, his ears going red.
Cangse laughed, tugging her own son forward. “And this is our little Wei Ying. Lively, mischievous, and usually harmless.”
“I am five,” Wei Ying chimed in proudly, raising five fingers.
“Usually,” Wei Changze muttered, though there was nothing but affection in his voice.
The children wasted no time.
“What’s that?” Wei Ying asked immediately, pointing at a carved whistle dangling from Chenyan’s belt.
“A spirit-wood whistle,” Chenyan said proudly. “It drives off hungry ghosts if you blow it right.”
“I can do that too!” Wei Ying fished a crumpled slip of paper from his sleeve, scrawled crooked strokes with all the confidence of a little lord of chaos, and slapped it on the ground. The talisman fizzled, sparked, and gave a pathetic puff of smoke.
Chenyao burst out laughing. “You drew it backwards!”
Wei Ying wrinkled his nose, grinning. “But it’s more fun this way!”
Even Xuilan cracked a rare smile, though she tried to cover it with a hand to her mouth. Watching them, Mu Linghua and Cangse exchanged that quiet look of mothers who knew their children had just found trouble together and would never be parted easily.
As their carts rolled on, the conversation shifted.
“The Yiling magistrate sent word,” Mu Tian said, gesturing to the boxes roped down. “Strange disturbances near the outskirts. Restless spirits, failing crops. Our talismans should help steady the yin flow until a cleansing rite can be arranged.”
Wei Changze nodded gravely. “We were called for the same. We plan to look around the area tonight. If the rumors hold, it may be more than common haunting.”
Linghua’s expression turned thoughtful. “Yiling remembers too much blood. Ancient battles, unmarked graves. The ground itself resents the living.”
Cangse’s gaze strayed to the children running circles around the carts, laughing as Wei Ying and Chenyao tried to outdo each other’s antics while Xuilan trailed behind, playing the reluctant chaperone. She sighed fondly. “Then best we keep them from remembering tonight’s work. Let them be children while they can.”
“Agreed,” Linghua said. Her gaze followed Wei Ying, who was already chattering away to Chenyao as if they’d known each other all their lives. Something in her heart stirred—an echo of fate she could not yet name.
***
By early evening, the caravan rolled into Yiling, its narrow streets already glowing with the orange haze of lantern light. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and woodsmoke, though beneath it lingered a faint, unsettling tang of damp earth and old incense, the kind of scent that clung to towns shadowed by restless graves.
The Mu family led the way to a well-kept inn near the central square, its carved sign swinging proudly in the breeze. The front hall was bustling with merchants, traveling scholars, and a few grim-faced cultivators come for the same summons.
At the counter, Mu Tian requested adjoining rooms for his household and turned to include the Weis. But Wei Changze shook his head quickly, his hand resting protectively at his wife’s elbow.
“That won’t be necessary, Brother Mu,” he said with quiet politeness. “Your kindness is more than enough. We’ll find humbler lodgings nearby.”
Cangse smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She had long grown used to such things, the quiet stretching of coins, the way innkeepers glanced at their travel-worn robes. “It would be better for us not to impose,” she added lightly. “Besides, Wei Ying will manage well enough anywhere.”
But Linghua stepped forward at once, her tone firm yet gentle. “Nonsense. The children are already thick as thieves. If you separate them tonight, they’ll sulk until dawn. Let them have this happiness, just for a night.”
Her gaze flicked knowingly to where the children were tugging at one another’s sleeves, chattering with bright eyes. Mu Chenyao clung to Wei Ying’s arm as though they had been siblings for years instead of hours.
Mu Tian gave a booming laugh, clapping Wei Changze on the shoulder. “Cangse saved my life. This—” he swept a hand toward the polished hall, the carved screens, the good wine already being set on trays, “—is the very least I can do. Do not shame me by refusing.”
Wei Changze hesitated. He was not a man who liked to take charity. But then he caught sight of his son, laughing as Chenyan showed him the proper way to blow the spirit-wood whistle, while Chenyao stole a dumpling from Xuilan’s pouch and shared it slyly with him under the table. The boy’s face glowed in a way it rarely did when it was just the three of them wandering from place to place.
At last, Wei Changze inclined his head. “Then… my thanks, Brother Mu. Sister Mu. For your generosity.”
And so they stayed.
That night, they gathered around a low table in a private room, lanterns casting golden circles across steaming bowls of broth and stacks of dumplings. Mu Tian poured wine generously, his booming laughter filling the space as he swapped hunting stories with Wei Changze.
On the other side, Linghua leaned close to Cangse, listening with fond amusement as the famous rogue cultivator spun out one of her night-hunt tales. Her hands moved animatedly, describing talismans that caught fire, ghosts that sang in broken voices, and a yao whose claws had shredded through three layers of armor.
“You exaggerate,” Linghua teased softly.
Cangse winked. “Maybe. But exaggeration makes for better stories.”
Meanwhile, beneath the table, the children were staging their own mischief. Chenyan tried to sneak dumplings into Wei Ying’s bowl when Xuilan wasn’t looking, only for Chenyao to snatch them first. Wei Ying retaliated by sliding a whole meat bun into Chenyao’s sleeve, muffling his giggles against the table edge. Even Xuilan, usually so composed, found herself laughing when Wei Ying’s crooked talisman sparked across the tabletop, making the chopsticks clatter like tiny drums.
For a moment, just one golden, fragile moment, it was easy to forget the troubled state of the world outside. The shadows of Yiling’s haunted fields could not touch the laughter echoing in that little room.
***
The knock came after supper, it sounded urgent, hurried. A weary servant in the Yiling magistrate’s livery bowed low at the door, his voice trembling as he explained the matter.
“The disturbances grow worse each night. Graves cracked open, shadows moving through the streets… The people beg for aid.”
Wei Changze and Cangse exchanged a glance. Neither hesitated. Already, Cangse was tugging her sleeves tighter, the familiar sharp gleam in her eyes. “We’ll go,” she said briskly.
But Mu Linghua rose before they could move further. “Wait. At least hear the magistrate’s report in full.” She beckoned the servant closer, her expression calm but firm. “Tell me where and how. What exactly has been seen?”
The servant faltered, shifting under her steady gaze. “We do not know the cause, Sect Leader. Some say a yao, others a curse. Talisman walls burn through in hours. Last night, two watchmen were dragged into the river and did not return.”
Linghua pressed her lips together, thoughtful. “And yet you ask two cultivators to walk blindly into it?”
She turned back to Cangse and Wei Changze, her voice softened by concern. “You two should just to patrol and observe, try to gauge what we are dealing with. Do not to move alone tonight. Come back when you’re done. At dawn we will confer with my disciples, and plan a proper nighthunt together. Whatever stalks Yiling is not a foe to be rushed.”
Cangse’s hand lingered briefly on Linghua’s arm, wordless gratitude in her touch. But the restlessness in her posture betrayed her nature as she was not one to sit idle when danger prowled. Wei Changze gave her a steadying look, and she sighed, conceding with a grin that was only half-mischief. “Fine. Patrol only. I promise.”
In the corridor, Wei Ying darted forward, tugging at his mother’s sleeve, lower lip jutting stubbornly. “But I can help too! I’m not scared of ghosts!”
Cangse crouched, smoothing his unruly hair from his forehead. Her smile was bright, but her eyes softened with a weight he did not notice. “Not tonight, Ying-er. Be good. Stay with your new friends. We’ll be back before you wake as always.”
Wei Changze bent to ruffle his son’s hair, his calm voice grounding the moment. “Listen to Auntie Mu and Uncle Mu. No running off. You’ll have your chance to show off your talismans soon enough.”
Wei Ying pouted, but Chenyao tugged at his hand, whispering something about sneaking another bun from the kitchen. His sulk dissolved into reluctant laughter.
Cangse drew him into her arms again, holding him longer this time. She pressed her cheek to his hair, breathing in the scent of smoke and ink that always clung to him. “My clever boy,” she whispered so softly only he could hear, “always stay bright.”
When she pulled back, her smile was dazzling, the kind that turned the world golden for him. He didn’t notice the way her eyes lingered, memorizing the curve of his cheek, the spark in his grin, as though she feared forgetting.
The last thing he saw before the door closed was his parents’ figures side by side, their shadows long in the lamplight, vanishing into the night beyond the inn’s glow.
And so, lulled by the laughter of the Mu children and the warmth of their shared room, Wei Ying drifted to sleep safe within their care, never knowing how much that one night’s choice would change the course of his life.
***
Morning came gray and restless. The inn bustled with clattering bowls and the hiss of kettles, the scent of rice porridge and fried cakes filling the air. But at the low table where the Mu children gathered, Wei Ying sat stiffly, chopsticks motionless. His dark eyes kept darting to the door, searching for familiar figures that did not appear.
“They’re not here,” he whispered, voice small. “They are always here when I wake up.”
Mu Linghua forced a calm smile, though a shadow lingered in her eyes. She reached across the table, placing an egg bun onto his plate. “Hunts sometimes take longer, Ying-er. Eat first. They’ll scold you if you don’t.”
Wei Ying nodded, but the food remained untouched. His hand trembled around the chopsticks until he set them down.
Xiulan leaned closer, her voice soft but brisk, as though she were speaking to her younger siblings. “If they’re late, it’s because they’re checking really well. That’s a good thing. It means they’re making sure the streets are safe for everyone.”
Chenyao, perched on Wei Ying’s other side, nudged him with her elbow. “Mm-hm. Mama says Auntie Cangse is stronger than anyone, even Uncle Tian when he’s showing off. She’ll come back and laugh at you for worrying.”
Wei Ying bit his lip, uncertain, but the words eased some of the tension in his shoulders.
By midday, however, the mood had shifted. Mu Linghua was strapping on armor, gathering men and blades. Her jaw was set, grim as she tied talismans around the hilts of swords. Still, when she sat before Wei Ying, her tone gentled. “If they were delayed, it was not by chance. Stay here, little one. We will find them.”
“I want to come!” Wei Ying burst out, fists clenched. “I can help—”
Linghua’s hand rested firmly on his shoulder, grounding him. “No. You must stay here with your friends. They need you too.” Her voice was gentle, but it brooked no argument.
His protests caught in his throat. All he could do was nod, though tears pricked his eyes.
As the search party filed out with torches and talismans, the boy pressed his forehead against the wooden lattice of the window, watching until the last figure vanished into mist. His knuckles were white where they gripped the frame.
Chenyan knelt beside him, slipping a talisman paper and brush into his hand. “Here. Make one with us. We’ll hang them for good luck. That way, your parents will see the way back.”
Wei Ying tried. His strokes wavered, ink blurring, and his lower lip trembled.
The twins bent over their own charms, deliberately making their characters crooked and messy. “Look!” Chenyao held hers up proudly, where half the lines crossed the wrong way. “Mine looks like a chicken’s foot!”
Chenyan gasped in mock outrage. “That’s supposed to be a warding talisman? The ghosts will laugh themselves to death before they run!”
Xiulan rolled her eyes, but her smile was soft. She leaned across to swap her neater strokes with Wei Ying’s shaky ones. “See? We’ll mix them up. No one will know which is yours and which is mine. It’ll still work.”
Wei Ying sniffled, wiping his sleeve across his eyes, and let out a small, shaky laugh. Surrounded by their chatter and warmth, he forced himself to keep the brush moving, though every stroke felt heavier than the last.
Mu Tian stood nearby, watching quietly, his heart aching at the sight. Still, he said only: “Be brave, A-Ying. We will bring them back.”
His voice carried a steady certainty, even as his fingers tightened around the rosary of spirit-wood beads at his wrist.
***
The forest at the foot of the Burial Mounds was heavy with silence. Mist clung low to the ground, pale veils between twisted tree trunks. The air smelled of damp earth, scorched talismans, and iron, an echo of battle clinging still to the soil. Crows wheeled above, black wings against the gray, their cries rasping like lamentation.
Linghua’s Sight opened as her party swept the undergrowth. A shimmer, thin and unearthly, tugged at the edge of her vision, pulling her away from the trail. Her heart stuttered even before she saw.
On the forest floor lay two figures. Wei Changze and Cangse Sanren, side by side as if even death could not part them. Their robes were torn and scorched, talismans charred to ash around them. Their swords lay in their hands still, steel nicked and bloodied. Death had been swift, but not merciful.
Linghua’s breath caught. Her disciples, grim-faced, bowed their heads in silence. She stepped forward, then the light shifted.
A figure stood among the trees, faint, translucent, yet unmistakable. Cangse Sanren, her form pale as moonlight, expression muted in that way of ghosts, but her wry smile, that familiar edge of mischief, lingered in her tone.
“Even in death,” she said softly, “I cause trouble.”
Tears blurred Linghua’s sight. “Cangse… what happened.”
The ghost tilted her head, gaze sliding briefly to her own body before returning to her friend. “We did not find the yao...” she said, voice low. “We were only patrolling when we were ambushed. Too many at once. We cut down as many as we could, but… even talismans burn out eventually.”
Her tone was calm, even, but Linghua heard the regret in the way her words lingered.
“What ambushed you?”
“What? No, the question should be who?”
“Humans? Cultivators?” Linghua hissed startling her disciples. “Who would do something so vile? Show them to me and we will bring you justice.”
She pulled out some talismans.
Cangse’s ghost shook her head. “We did not see their faces, they had masks on. Save your energy Linghua. Things will unravel as they will.”
“We will bury you,” Linghua whispered, forcing steadiness into her voice. “With proper ceremony.”
“No.” The ghost’s eyes sharpened, glinting like steel through a veil. “Just bury us here. Do it quietly, before my son sees. Spare him that sight.”
Linghua’s heart twisted at the thought of the bright little boy. “And Wei Ying? He still has family. Jiang Fengmian—”
“Not the Jiangs.” The words rang like struck bronze, fierce and absolute. “He must not go to Yunmeng. Promise me, Linghua.”
“Then…” Linghua swallowed, her hand pressing over the ache in her chest. “Then I will take him. Raise him. He will be my son.”
Cangse’s form flickered, the sharpness fading to something soft. Relief, muted but unmistakable. “Good. Yes. Thank you.”
Her gaze turned distant, as though she were looking past Linghua, into a life she could no longer reach. “I thought I’d have longer. To watch him grow. To see the man he’d become.” The words trembled though her face remained serene, a ghost’s inability to weep leaving her voice the only vessel for sorrow. “Now… I can only hope.”
Linghua pressed her lips together, eyes burning.
“Give him our swords,” Cangse added, her tone firm again. “Mine and Changze’s. Tell him they are his birthright. He should grow with steel at his side, not empty hands.”
She paused, flickering faintly, her edges dissolving into the mist. “I regret that my calming ceremony binds me. I cannot rise as a resentful spirit, cannot take vengeance for this crime. Perhaps that is mercy, but—” She gave a soft, breathless laugh. “I would have liked, just once, to frighten those cowards from their beds.”
Her gaze turned back to Linghua, steady now. “But before I go… let me say goodbye. To my boy. Just once more.”
Linghua swallowed hard and nodded. “I have a talisman,” she said quietly. “One that will let him see you clearly. Wait here. I will send for him.”
She turned, signaling to her men. “Bury them. Quickly. Before the child arrives.”
Her soldiers bowed low, grim but efficient, already preparing to move the bodies with reverence.
Linghua looked back one last time. Cangse’s ghost stood still among the trees, expression muted, gaze fixed on the path where Wei Ying would soon come running.
“Be ready,” Linghua whispered.
***
By sunset, the glade at the forest’s edge lay hushed beneath the last streaks of dying light. The Burial Mounds loomed above, their dark silhouette pressing like a shadow across the land. Crickets had begun to sing, their chirps sharp in the stillness. Linghua stood waiting, talisman pressed faintly in her palm, the glow dim and wavering like a fragile lantern flame.
At last, hurried footsteps broke the silence. Wei Ying came running, his little ponytail bouncing, eyes wide and wet with hope that refused to be dimmed by dread. His chest heaved from running, but the moment his gaze lifted and he froze. He did not need a talisman.
“Mama!” he cried, voice breaking.
There, half-hidden among the trees, the shimmering form of Cangse Sanren wavered in the gloom. Her figure was soft-edged, blurred as if seen through water, but her face, her face was his whole world.
Wei Ying flung himself forward, stumbling, arms outstretched. But he crashed through empty air. He spun around in panic, reaching again, and again his hands met nothing but the cold bite of dusk.
“Mama? Why—? Why can’t I—?” His voice cracked high and desperate. His little fists clawed at the air until at last they fell uselessly to his sides. His eyes darted wildly, searching. “Where is Baba?”
Cangse sank to her knees before him, though her body flickered like smoke caught in a breeze. Her voice was gentle, achingly tender, the softness of a lullaby. “Ying-er, listen to me.”
“No! No! You cannot leave me!” His cry was raw, shaking, more than a child’s should ever be. Perhaps some buried shard of memory stirred within him, a faint remnant from a soul that had once lived and lost too much. A stubborn piece that even the River of Forgetfulness cannot wash away. Perhaps that was why, though so young, he knew.
“A-Ying,” she whispered, her hand lifting but never touching, “Baba and I, we love you. Always. Always and forever. But we must go now. And you—” her voice trembled, though her face remained ghost-still—“you must be brave.”
“I don’t want to!” His small fists pounded the earth, dirt smearing his sleeves. “I want you to come home! I’ll be good, I’ll—I'll listen, I’ll never make trouble again, please, Mama, please!”
Cangse’s hand hovered, as if aching to cup his cheek, though it passed through only air.
“No, Ying-er. This is not because you’ve been naughty. My a-ying is a good boy. The bestest boy.”
Her voice caught faintly, like wind snagging on stone. “But I am sorry. We cannot stay anymore. Your Auntie Linghua—she will take care of you. She will be your new mama.”
Wei Ying shook his head violently, tears streaking his dirt-smudged face. “I don’t want a new mama! I want you and Baba!”
Cangse’s form wavered, but her voice steadied, the softness of a mother wrapping iron truth. “Listen to me, Ying-er. Listen. Life will not always be kind. There will be times when people do not see your heart, only what they fear. You must remember: do not let their fear decide who you are. You must laugh, even when the world is heavy. You must protect, even if no one thanks you. That is the strength of our blood.”
Her hand drifted down, stopping just above his small fist. “Do not be afraid to be clever, A-ying. But be clever for good things. Be clever to save lives, to ease pain, to bring light where it is dark. If you must break rules, break them to help the ones who cannot help themselves.”
Wei Ying sobbed, his small shoulders trembling. “Mama?”
Cangse’s smile was wistful, aching with the weight of goodbye. “You will never be alone. Remember this: the world is wide, and there will always be those who will walk beside you. And if one day, you meet someone who sees you—all of you—hold them close, and never let go.”
Her outline flickered again, fading like mist. She leaned close, voice a whisper as soft as falling ash: “Ying-er, my brightest boy… live well. Live freely. Live bravely.”
The words struck like blades. Wei Ying shook his head furiously, his voice shattering into a scream again.
“I don’t want a new mama! I love you ! And Baba! I want you! I want you!”
He screamed until his throat broke, until his breath tore ragged from his chest. His body heaved with sobs, so violent they wracked his small frame until at last exhaustion seized him. His limbs went limp, and he collapsed, unconscious, into Linghua’s waiting arms.
Linghua caught him carefully, clutching him against her chest, her hand trembling as it smoothed back his damp hair. Her voice, though, was steady, firm as an oath. “I swear on my life and my clan, Cangse. He will be loved. He will never be alone.”
Cangse’s ghost looked down at them both, sorrow etched into the fragile lines of her face. Ghosts could not shed tears, but her gaze was heavy with all she could not release.
At last, she managed the faintest smile. The edges of her form frayed, dissolving into motes of pale light. They scattered upward, shimmering like falling stars, until nothing remained but the dusk and the child’s soft, uneven breathing against Linghua’s shoulder.
Linghua bowed her head, her tears falling where Cangse’s could not.
End Chapter
A/N: OMG. I actually cried while writing this… I’ve gone soft… Anyway, see you next chapter, if you still want to read. It will be a happier one, I promise. Comments/kudos are most welcome and appreciated. Did I traumatize Wei Ying? I think in my head, he’d be grateful to have had that one last conversation, that would become his moral compass as he grows…but that’s just me. Any way for five year old Wei Ying, he would need years of therapy after that, I think.
P.S. For those reading my other fic Immortal Books and Brews I will update in a day or two it’s still being edited because I had too many words again 20K hahaha, so I’m trimming half but that’s the challenging part.