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    In the Quiet Echoes of a Broken Heart

    Obrázek autora: Mimosa ConfianteMimosa Confiante

    In the Quiet Echoes of a Broken Heart explores themes of love, loss, and redemption. Set against the backdrop of a fractured world, the story follows a man’s quiet journey through grief as he raises a child and seeks to honor the memories of those he has lost. As old wounds resurface and truths are revealed, past betrayals must be confronted, and deep emotional bonds are tested. Through moments of reflection, music, and healing, the story touches on the enduring connection between parent and child, and the power of love that transcends time.

     

    The hall was eerily silent, save for the soft sound of breathing as Lan Wangji stood before the elders of the Lan Sect, his head bowed, his robes stained with the remnants of battle and grief. His body was tense, bruised, still recovering from the endless nights he had spent at the Burial Mounds - looking, searching for even the faintest trace of Wei Ying. But there had been nothing. Only death.


    The elders had assembled, and all eyes were on him. His uncle, Lan Qiren, sat at the center, his face drawn tight with the weight of the decision he had made. Lan Xichen stood to the side, his eyes dark with sorrow as he watched his younger brother. Lan Wangji could feel the heaviness of their gazes, but he kept his focus ahead, his mind elsewhere, drowning in thoughts of Wei Ying. The ache of his absence was unbearable, a weight that pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe.


    "You have broken the rules of our clan, Lan Zhan," Lan Qiren's voice cut through the silence, sharp and cold. He used the familiar name out of habit, but to Lan Wangji, it felt like a distant echo of a life that no longer existed.


    Lan Wangji’s jaw tightened, but he remained still, his fingers hidden beneath his sleeves trembling ever so slightly. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse from days of silence and grief. “My name is Lan Wangji.”


    Lan Qiren hesitated, his brow furrowing at the correction, but continued, his tone unwavering. “You harbored a criminal. You defied our rules by protecting Wei Wuxian, a man the world deemed a traitor and enemy to all that is righteous. The sect cannot turn a blind eye to your actions.”


    A flicker of emotion crossed Lan Wangji's face at the mention of Wei Ying’s name, but he suppressed it quickly. His heart clenched, and for a brief moment, the world seemed to tilt as the pain of Wei Ying’s death threatened to overwhelm him. He had been called many things by the world - traitor, villain, demon - but to Lan Wangji, Wei Ying had been none of those. He had been everything.


    The elders murmured among themselves, their voices hushed but laced with judgment. They couldn’t understand - none of them could. They hadn’t seen what Lan Wangji had seen, hadn’t known the man behind the rumors and accusations.

    “What is white, and what is black?” Lan Wangji’s voice suddenly broke through the tension, his words quiet but piercing. He lifted his head to meet his uncle’s gaze, his eyes hollow yet fierce. “What is righteousness, when mercy is condemned as a sin?”


    The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and the elders fell silent. Lan Qiren’s expression faltered, just for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. "There are rules that guide us, Lan Wangji. Without them, there is chaos. The path you chose has consequences."


    Lan Wangji’s gaze did not waver. He knew the punishment that awaited him, but he didn’t care. The weight of his grief far surpassed the sting of any discipline the sect could impose. He had already endured the worst kind of punishment - losing Wei Ying.


    Lan Qiren motioned to one of the disciples. “Bring the discipline whip.”


    The room seemed to close in around Lan Wangji as he stood tall, awaiting the punishment. The whip, with its many jagged ends, was a tool meant to maintain the clan’s strict order. Each lash was a reminder of the rules he had broken, but Lan Wangji’s heart was already far removed from this place.


    The first strike came hard and fast, tearing through his robes and biting into his flesh. His body jerked from the impact, but he did not cry out. He gritted his teeth, his mind fixating on one thing - Wei Ying. Each strike was like a ghost of the pain he felt when he had seen Wei Ying fall, his body crumpling into the dirt, his spirit extinguished in the most unjust way possible. This pain was nothing compared to that.


    The lashes continued, each one harder than the last, but Lan Wangji’s resolve remained unbroken. Blood began to seep through his robes, staining the pristine white fabric, but his posture never wavered. His eyes remained forward, distant, as if the pain were happening to someone else, far removed from his own body.


    In his mind, he was elsewhere, standing once again at the edge of the Burial Mounds, waiting, hoping that Wei Ying might somehow return. But he never did.

    After what felt like an eternity, the whipping stopped. The room was silent once more, and Lan Wangji stood, his back torn and bleeding, his breathing shallow but steady. His body ached, but he refused to show weakness.

    Lan Xichen stepped forward, his eyes filled with sorrow. “Wangji…” His voice was soft, pleading, as if asking for forgiveness. But Lan Wangji did not respond. He could not respond.


    Lan Qiren cleared his throat, standing up from his seat. “You will remain within the confines of Cloud Recesses to reflect on your actions, Lan Wangji, until your wounds heal. That is the will of the elders.”

    As the elders dismissed the meeting, Lan Wangji turned without a word, walking toward his quarters, every step agonizing but purposeful. He would not stay here. His place was not within the confines of Cloud Recesses, surrounded by rules and judgments. His place was at the Burial Mounds, to find A-Yuan - the boy he had promised to protect, the only remaining piece of Wei Ying he had left. He didn’t know if A-Yuan had survived, but he had to find out. The thought of failing Wei Ying once more was unbearable.

     

    Lan Wangji left Cloud Recesses under the cover of night, his steps heavy and slow as pain pulsed through his back, each movement pulling at the wounds from the discipline whip. The cuts burned, and his body was weak, but the thought of A-Yuan kept him moving. He had no certainty, no way of knowing if A-Yuan was even alive. The Burial Mounds had been a place of death and chaos, and so much had been destroyed in the final days of Wei Ying’s life. But Lan Wangji could not let himself believe that A-Yuan was gone. He clung to the thought that somehow, some way, the boy had survived.


    Days passed in a blur of pain and exhaustion as Lan Wangji made his way toward the Burial Mounds. His body protested every step, but he refused to slow down. His mind kept replaying the image of Wei Ying’s last moments - the fall, the silence, the finality of it all - and the thought of losing A-Yuan too was more than he could bear. His promise to Wei Ying echoed in his mind, urging him forward.


    As he neared the remnants of the Burial Mounds, the landscape was hauntingly quiet. The once-bustling place, full of life under Wei Ying’s protection, was now a wasteland of ash and silence. Lan Wangji’s heart clenched at the sight. Everything had been taken from him. Wei Ying’s spirit, his people, and perhaps even the little boy who had clung to him with innocent eyes. But he couldn’t give up - not yet.


    Lan Wangji searched the desolate landscape, his eyes scanning the ruins, looking for any sign of life. The weight of his injuries made it difficult to keep moving, but he pressed on, knowing that the pain in his body was nothing compared to the emptiness in his heart.


    Finally, after hours of searching, he heard a soft whimper, barely audible over the wind that swept through the barren land. His heart leaped into his throat as he rushed toward the sound, ignoring the way his wounds screamed in protest. There, huddled under the remnants of a collapsed structure, was a small, frail figure - A-Yuan.


    The boy was filthy and trembling, his tiny body curled up, eyes wide with fear. His face was smudged with dirt, and he looked thinner, weaker than Lan Wangji remembered. But he was alive. A-Yuan was alive.


    Lan Wangji dropped to his knees, ignoring the pain that shot up his spine, and gently reached out toward the boy. “A-Yuan,” he whispered, his voice thick with relief and exhaustion. “It’s me.”


    A-Yuan blinked up at him, recognition slowly dawning in his wide, tear-filled eyes. “Rich - gege…?”


    Lan Wangji’s heart ached at the sound of his name. “Yes,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “It’s me. I’m here now.”


    A-Yuan hesitated for a moment before launching himself into Lan Wangji’s arms, burying his face in his robes. The boy’s small body shook with sobs as he clung to Lan Wangji, and for a moment, all of the pain and grief that Lan Wangji had been carrying seemed to disappear. He held A-Yuan close, his arms wrapping protectively around him.


    “You’re safe now,” Lan Wangji whispered, though he wasn’t sure if the words were for A-Yuan or for himself.


    But as the relief washed over him, Lan Wangji became acutely aware of his own physical limitations. His body, already weakened from the journey and the wounds on his back, could barely support him, let alone the child now resting against him. His vision blurred for a moment, the world tilting slightly as a wave of dizziness passed over him. He had to get A-Yuan to safety - but he didn’t know if he could make it.


    “Lan… Lan Wangji…”


    A voice, soft but firm, interrupted the moment. Lan Wangji blinked through the haze of exhaustion to see a figure standing nearby, a person dressed in plain robes with a gentle, understanding gaze. It was someone from his past, a cultivator who had once worked quietly within the Lan Sect but had left the sect years ago. The helper had come upon the ruins, perhaps sensing the disturbance in the area, and had found Lan Wangji in his moment of need.


    “You need to rest,” the helper said softly, their eyes flicking to the trembling boy in Lan Wangji’s arms. “Let me help.”


    Lan Wangji wanted to refuse. He wanted to stand on his own, to carry A-Yuan to safety by himself. But the pain in his body made every movement agony, and the dizziness was only getting worse. He could feel his strength slipping away.


    Reluctantly, Lan Wangji nodded.


    The helper approached cautiously, kneeling beside him to check the boy first. “He’s weak but alive,” they said softly, offering Lan Wangji a small nod of reassurance before turning their attention to Lan Wangji’s injuries. “You’re not in much better shape,” the helper added, their voice tinged with concern.


    “I have to…” Lan Wangji began, his voice strained, but the helper shook their head.

    “You’ve done enough for now. Let me take over. We’ll get him somewhere safe.”


    Lan Wangji wanted to protest, but the exhaustion was too overwhelming. He had to trust the helper for now. Slowly, carefully, he allowed them to take A-Yuan from his arms, feeling a pang of guilt as he did so. But the boy needed care, and Lan Wangji could not provide it in his current state.


    Together, they made their way to a small, secluded home hidden in the mountains. It was not far, but every step felt like a battle for Lan Wangji. By the time they reached the house, his entire body was trembling from the effort, and he collapsed the moment they stepped through the door.


     

    For days, Lan Wangji lay on a makeshift bed in the small home, barely conscious, as the helper tended to both him and A-Yuan. His back was wrapped in bandages, the pain dulled by herbal remedies, but the exhaustion ran far deeper than physical wounds. Every moment he spent resting felt like time wasted - time he could be spending with A-Yuan, protecting him, teaching him. But his body refused to cooperate.



    The helper worked quietly, never asking for thanks or recognition, simply ensuring that both Lan Wangji and A-Yuan had what they needed. They made herbal teas, tended to the wounds, and kept the house warm and safe. Though the helper’s presence was constant, they remained respectful of Lan Wangji’s silence and need for space.


    When Lan Wangji finally regained enough strength to sit up, A-Yuan was the first thing he saw. The boy was sitting beside him, his small hands clutching a bowl of soup, his wide eyes filled with worry.


    “Baba?” A-Yuan whispered, the word trembling on his lips.


    Lan Wangji’s heart clenched at the sound. Baba. He wasn’t A-Yuan’s father, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. A-Yuan had lost so much, and if calling him “Baba” brought him comfort, Lan Wangji wouldn’t take that away from him.


    “Yes,” Lan Wangji whispered, his voice still hoarse from disuse. “I’m here.”


    A-Yuan’s face lit up with relief, and he reached out to offer the bowl of soup to Lan Wangji. His hands were shaking slightly, but the gesture was full of love and trust.

    Lan Wangji accepted the bowl, his hands still weak but steady enough to hold it. As he sipped the warm liquid, he felt a sense of peace settle over him. The pain in his body was still present, and the grief in his heart had not lessened, but A-Yuan was safe. For now, that was enough.


     

    The days passed slowly, each one an echo of the last, marked by the steady rhythm of Lan Wangji’s quiet suffering. The house in the mountains had become a sanctuary - a place far removed from the world that had judged Wei Ying, and by extension, Lan Wangji himself. The home, though small, was filled with a kind of stillness that soothed, but also reminded him of what was lost. Silence had become his constant companion, save for the soft voice of A-Yuan, a child too young to understand the depths of the sorrow that surrounded them.

    Lan Wangji moved through each day as if in a trance. His body, still healing from the deep wounds left by the discipline whip, ached with every movement. Each step was a reminder of the punishment he had accepted without question, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache that gnawed at him from within. He could live with the scars on his back, but the scar on his heart—the one Wei Ying had left - bled endlessly.

     

    In the mornings, Lan Wangji rose before dawn, moving with the same precision and control that had been ingrained in him since he was a child. But here, in the quiet mountains, there was no one to enforce the rules, no elders to correct his every step. The air was cool, the breeze carrying the scent of pine and earth. He dressed in the new, plain robes he had acquired - soft gray, their simplicity a stark contrast to the life he once led. The fabric was rougher than the fine silks of the Lan Sect, but it did not matter. These robes were not for show, but for living.



    Each day, he tended to the small house and the garden they had begun to cultivate outside, ensuring that he and A-Yuan had what they needed to survive. Money was not abundant, and what little Lan Wangji had left was spent sparingly on the essentials - food, herbal remedies, and the simplest of clothing. The life they lived now was a far cry from the disciplined luxury of the Lan Sect, but it was enough.


    A-Yuan, always eager to help, followed Lan Wangji’s every move, his small feet pattering across the floor as he mimicked his baba’s actions.


    “Baba!” A-Yuan called one morning, his voice filled with excitement as he tugged on Lan Wangji’s sleeve. “Look! I planted the flowers!”


    Lan Wangji turned to see the small patch of earth they had worked on together. Tiny white flowers sprouted from the soil, fragile and new, their petals trembling in the early morning breeze. A surge of emotion rose in Lan Wangji’s chest, a mix of pride and sorrow. These small, delicate blooms were the first signs of life in a place that had felt so lifeless for so long.


    Kneeling beside A-Yuan, Lan Wangji placed a gentle hand on the boy’s head. “You did well,” he said softly, his voice low with emotion.


    A-Yuan grinned up at him, his face bright with joy, unaware of the depth of the moment. For him, it was a simple success, but for Lan Wangji, it was a reminder that life - fragile as it was - could still bloom, even in the midst of loss.

     

    The days passed in a quiet rhythm, but Lan Wangji found purpose in raising A-Yuan. The boy, once frail and frightened, had grown stronger under Lan Wangji’s care, though his spirit remained gentle and kind.


    One afternoon, as the sun bathed the mountains in golden light, Lan Wangji stood with A-Yuan in the clearing outside their home. The boy held a small, practice sword in his hands, his grip unsteady but determined.


    Lan Wangji stood behind him, his posture as rigid and precise as ever, his hands resting gently on A-Yuan’s shoulders as he guided him through the forms.


    “Steady your feet,” Lan Wangji instructed, his voice calm and steady despite the pain that still throbbed in his back. “Focus.”


    A-Yuan’s brow furrowed as he tried to mimic the movements, his small body wobbling with the effort. His determination was fierce, a reflection of the stubbornness that had once burned so brightly in Wei Ying. The thought made Lan Wangji’s heart ache, but he pushed the feeling aside, focusing instead on the boy in front of him.


    “You’re doing well,” Lan Wangji said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that surprised even him. He adjusted A-Yuan’s stance, guiding the boy’s small hands as they moved through the motions together.


    A-Yuan’s face lit up with pride, his eyes shining as he tried again, his movements clumsy but filled with effort. For a moment, Lan Wangji allowed himself to feel a flicker of hope. He had lost so much, but here, in the simple act of teaching A-Yuan, he had found a small piece of redemption.

     

    At night, when the house had fallen silent and A-Yuan was fast asleep, Lan Wangji would sit by the fire with the guqin resting in his lap. The firelight flickered softly across the room, casting long shadows against the walls, but the warmth it provided could not reach the cold emptiness that had settled deep inside his chest.


    His fingers, hovered above the strings of the guqin. His body was tired, his back stiff from the scars that had yet to fade, but tonight, like many nights before, he would play the song that had come to define his search for something he could no longer touch - Inquiry.


    The melody of Inquiry was not like the other songs he played for A-Yuan to lull him to sleep. This was different - this was a conversation with the dead, a desperate call into the void, searching for the one spirit he longed to reach. Each note was carefully plucked, the sound soft but full of meaning. It was a song of longing, of hope, and of sorrow, all wrapped in the haunting melody.


    Lan Wangji closed his eyes as he played, his fingers moving with a precision that belied the trembling in his heart.


    “Wei Ying…”


    His voice was barely more than a whisper, spoken into the stillness of the night. He played Inquiry for him - for the one who had been taken too soon, for the one he had not been able to protect. It was a song that carried his deepest desires, his unspoken love, and the endless regret that weighed on him.


    The music flowed through the room, curling around him like a soft breeze, reaching into the night. Lan Wangji played, note after note, his heart in every movement, hoping - just hoping - that Wei Ying would answer.


    Each night, he played, and each night, there was only silence. But Lan Wangji continued, because he could not stop. As long as there was even the faintest possibility that Wei Ying might hear him, he would play. He would keep searching.

    “I couldn’t save you,” he whispered into the music, his voice cracking with the weight of his grief. “I couldn’t protect you.”


    The melody shifted, growing softer, sadder. His hands trembled over the strings, but still, he played. It was all he could do. Inquiry was his only way to reach Wei Ying now, and though the silence that followed day after day was unbearable, Lan Wangji could not let go.


    “I miss you,” he confessed quietly, his voice breaking as his heart ached with the loss that time had not dulled. “Wei Ying… I miss you every day.”


    But the night remained quiet, and the only sound that answered him was the fading echoes of his own music. The silence felt endless, heavy with the weight of things left unsaid.


    After the last note of Inquiry faded into the quiet night, Lan Wangji let his hands fall from the strings of the guqin. The silence that followed weighed heavily on him, as it always did. Wei Ying’s absence was a wound that would never heal, no matter how many nights he played. The stillness was suffocating, a reminder that no answer would come, no voice would call back to him.


    But just as the silence became unbearable, a soft, sleepy voice broke through.


    “Baba?” A-Yuan mumbled, his small body curled up under the blankets. His wide, drowsy eyes blinked up at Lan Wangji from across the room, still clinging to the remnants of sleep. “Can you tell me a story before bed?”


    Lan Wangji, lost in his grief, hadn’t noticed A-Yuan stirring. The boy had been tucked in long before he had started playing, but it seemed the soft melody of the guqin had drawn him out of sleep. Lan Wangji’s heart ached at the sight of him - innocent, trusting, and full of life.


    He rose from his seat at the guqin and moved quietly to A-Yuan’s bedside, kneeling down beside him. A-Yuan’s little hand reached out, grasping onto the sleeve of Lan Wangji’s robe, as if afraid to let him drift too far away. The boy’s small, sleepy smile tugged at something deep within Lan Wangji, a warmth that cut through the cold loneliness.


    “Please, Baba,” A-Yuan pleaded softly. “Tell me about… about someone brave.”


    Lan Wangji hesitated, his gaze falling to A-Yuan’s hand clutching his robe. “Someone brave?” he repeated softly, his mind immediately going to Wei Ying. His throat tightened, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure if he could speak.


    But when A-Yuan looked at him with those wide, expectant eyes, Lan Wangji found himself nodding. He gently brushed a lock of hair from A-Yuan’s forehead, his voice low and soothing.


    “There was a man,” Lan Wangji began, his voice quiet but steady. “He was strong… but not in the way others thought. He had no fear of darkness, no fear of those who hated him. He smiled, even when the world turned against him.”


    A-Yuan listened intently, his small hand still wrapped around Lan Wangji’s sleeve, his eyes slowly growing heavier with sleep. “What was his name?” A-Yuan asked through a yawn.


    Lan Wangji hesitated for just a moment before answering. “His name was Wei Ying,” he said softly, his heart aching with every syllable. “He was… the bravest person I’ve ever known.”


    A-Yuan, half-asleep, mumbled softly. “I want to meet him… someday.”

    Lan Wangji’s chest tightened, but he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to A-Yuan’s forehead. “Maybe… one day,” he whispered, though the words felt like both a promise and a silent plea. A-Yuan drifted off, his grip on Lan Wangji’s sleeve loosening as he sank back into sleep, his breathing slow and steady.


    Lan Wangji remained by his side for a long time, watching the rise and fall of A-Yuan’s chest. His heart ached, but in this quiet moment, with A-Yuan’s small body curled up against him, there was a fragile sense of peace - something soft and warm in the cold night.

     

    As A-Yuan grew stronger and more confident, Lan Wangji decided it was time to teach him more than sword forms. He had been careful not to overwhelm the boy, but one evening, after a particularly quiet day, Lan Wangji led A-Yuan to sit beside him at the guqin.


    A-Yuan’s eyes were wide with wonder as he stared at the instrument. His small hands reached out, brushing over the strings delicately, his face lighting up as he produced a soft, unexpected note.


    “Do you want to learn?” Lan Wangji asked, his voice low and warm. A-Yuan nodded enthusiastically, his excitement palpable.


    “Like you?” A-Yuan asked, his eyes shining. “Will I play like you, Baba?”


    Lan Wangji’s chest tightened, his heart swelling with a mix of pride and sorrow. “One day,” he said softly, guiding A-Yuan’s hands to the proper position on the strings. “It takes practice.”


    A-Yuan plucked the strings again, but the sound that came out was sharp and jarring. He frowned, his little face scrunching up in frustration. “Why does it sound bad?” he asked, his lip quivering.


    Lan Wangji remained calm, his voice patient as he adjusted A-Yuan’s hands. “It’s your first time,” he said gently. “It takes time to learn. Try again.”


    With Lan Wangji’s guidance, A-Yuan tried again, his fingers shaking slightly as they hovered above the strings. The sound was still far from perfect, but it was softer this time - closer to the melodic notes Lan Wangji had played so many times before.


    A-Yuan’s face lit up, and he looked up at Lan Wangji with wide, bright eyes. “I did it!” he said, his voice full of pride. “Did you hear that, Baba?”


    Lan Wangji’s lips curved into a faint smile, his heart warming at the sight of A-Yuan’s joy. “I heard,” he said softly, his hand resting gently on A-Yuan’s back. “You did well.”


    The two of them spent the rest of the evening at the guqin, A-Yuan plucking at the strings with clumsy, eager hands, while Lan Wangji guided him with patient precision. The boy’s enthusiasm was contagious, and for the first time in a long while, Lan Wangji felt something close to hope stirring in his chest.

     

    As the days turned into weeks, A-Yuan’s attachment to Lan Wangji only grew stronger. The boy, still so young and innocent, clung to Lan Wangji wherever they went. Whether it was holding onto the sleeve of his robe while they walked through the garden or resting his head on Lan Wangji’s lap as they sat by the fire, A-Yuan sought comfort in his baba’s presence at every turn.


    One afternoon, after a long day of practice and chores, A-Yuan was especially tired. His little feet dragged behind him as they made their way back to the house, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion. Without a word, A-Yuan reached up and grabbed onto Lan Wangji’s hand, his small fingers curling around his baba’s in a tight, trusting grip.


    “Baba,” A-Yuan murmured sleepily, leaning against Lan Wangji’s leg as they walked. “Don’t leave.”


    Lan Wangji’s heart clenched at the boy’s words. He knelt down, lifting A-Yuan into his arms effortlessly, cradling him against his chest. The boy’s head rested on his shoulder, his breath soft and steady against Lan Wangji’s neck.


    “I won’t,” Lan Wangji whispered, his voice soft but firm. “I’m here.”


    A-Yuan, already half-asleep, nodded weakly, his little arms wrapping around Lan Wangji’s neck as he drifted off completely. The boy’s warmth pressed against him, and for the briefest of moments, Lan Wangji felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time—contentment.

     

    It had been years since Lan Wangji had left Cloud Recesses, and though his absence weighed heavily on those who loved him, the sect continued in its quiet routines. But now, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, a solitary figure approached the gates - Mei-shen, a helper who had been sent to look after Lan Wangji after his punishment. He had been chosen not only for his skills but because of his quiet, understanding nature. Over time, he had become more than a mere helper to Lan Wangji - he had become a witness to his grief and his love for the boy he now raised in solitude.



    Mei-shen walked through the halls with purpose, but his heart was heavy. He had seen the toll the Lan Sect's punishment had taken on Lan Wangji. It wasn’t just his body that had been broken - it was his spirit, his sense of belonging, his very heart. And now, standing before Sect Leader Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren, Mei-shen knew that the time had come to speak the truth.


    Lan Xichen and Lan Qiren stood waiting at the entrance of Cloud Recesses, their faces lined with concern. They had been expecting Lan Wangji to return, or at least to hear word from him. But seeing Mei-shen arrive alone sent a chill through the air.


    “Where is Wangji?” Lan Xichen’s voice was soft but filled with worry. He had not seen his brother for so long, and the guilt of failing to protect him gnawed at his heart.


    Mei-shen looked at him, expression guarded. “He’s not coming back,” he said quietly, the weight of the words settling heavily between them.


    Lan Qiren stepped forward, his brow furrowed in frustration. “Why has he not returned? We expected him to fulfill his duty.”


    At that, Mei-shen’s calm demeanor cracked. “Duty?” he repeated, voice low with anger. “Do you even understand what you did to him?”


    The silence that followed was deafening. Lan Xichen’s face paled, and he took a step closer, his hands clenched at his sides. “What… what do you mean?”


    Mei-shen’s voice trembled, not with fear, but with the weight of the truth he had carried for so long. “You broke him,” the said, voice tight with emotion. “You whipped him for protecting someone he loved, for showing compassion. And now, you wonder why he hasn’t returned? He’s alive, but he’s not living for you.”


    Lan Qiren, ever the stern elder, narrowed his eyes. “He is part of this family, part of this sect. His duty is to us.”


    But Mei-shen shook his head, eyes flashing with anger. “His duty?” He paused, voice trembling with the effort to remain calm. “His duty was to Wei Wuxian. To the man you all turned your backs on. You punished him for standing by someone he loved, and now, he’s gone for you. He has found something far more important than your rules, and you lost him because of it.”


    Lan Xichen’s eyes filled with sorrow, his voice barely a whisper. “What has happened to him?”


    Mei-shen’s face softened, but there was still an edge to their words. “He is raising a child. A boy Wei Wuxian once protected and Wangji is raising him as his own. That is where his heart is now.”


    Lan Xichen’s breath hitched in his throat. A child? Lan Wangji had been raising a child all this time, alone? His heart ached with the realization that his brother had built a new life in the shadows, far from the family and sect that had once defined him.


    Lan Qiren’s face darkened with disbelief. “A child?” he repeated, his voice incredulous. “He’s abandoned his sect for a boy?”


    Mei-shen’s eyes hardened. “He has not abandoned anything. He is doing what you failed to do! A-Yuan is all he has now, and he will not return to a place that made him choose between love and duty.”


    Lan Xichen’s eyes filled with tears as the weight of Mei-shen’s words sank in. His brother was lost to them, not by choice, but by the choices they had made for him.

     

    The night was still, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. Lan Wangji moved silently through the valley, his steps quiet and deliberate. A-Yuan, now a young man of 12, walked beside him, his hand no longer clutching Lan Wangji’s like a child, but his presence was close and steady, reflecting the years of care and training that had shaped him.


    They were on one of their quiet night hunts, revisiting the places where Wei Ying’s spirit might still linger, searching for even the faintest trace. Lan Wangji had never stopped playing Inquiry, hoping that one day Wei Ying would hear and respond, though years of silence had greeted them instead.


    Tonight was different, however. Tonight, they stood at the very cliff where Wei Ying had fallen all those years ago - a place sacred to Lan Wangji, where grief and memory blended with the wind that howled over the edge. The moonlight bathed the area in a ghostly glow, illuminating the jagged rocks below where Wei Ying had disappeared into the abyss.


    Lan Wangji set down his guqin and began preparing to play Inquiry once more. A-Yuan, now grown but still watching with the same quiet reverence he always had, stood a few steps behind, his expression serious. These moments were not simply for remembrance - they were for a connection to the man he had little known, but who had shaped his life in so many ways.


    Just as Lan Wangji’s fingers touched the strings, the sound of footsteps broke through the quiet. His hand stilled, his gaze hardening as he turned toward the source of the intrusion. Emerging from the shadows of the trees was Jiang Cheng, his face twisted with anger and resentment, as though the years had done nothing to soften the bitter lines etched into his expression.


    “Lan Wangji,” Jiang Cheng’s voice cut through the night like a blade, sharp and filled with barely-contained rage. “What do you think you’re doing here?”


    Lan Wangji did not respond immediately. He stood, his body tense but controlled, as he positioned himself slightly in front of A-Yuan. His gaze met Jiang Cheng’s with a cold, unwavering fury that had simmered beneath the surface for years.


    Jiang Cheng stepped closer, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You’ve been playing that damned song for years,” he spat, his voice rising with each word. “Chasing after a ghost. What do you think you’re going to find here? Wei Wuxian is dead. He’s been dead for years, and he deserved what he got.”


    A-Yuan, older now but still deeply affected by the tension in the air, watched the exchange closely. He had heard these words before - this venomous hatred directed at the man he had come to know only through stories. But hearing it here, on the very spot where Wei Ying had fallen, twisted something deep within him.


    Lan Wangji’s jaw tightened, his heart pounding with the familiar anger that always rose at the mention of Wei Ying’s name spoken with such contempt. Jiang Cheng’s words cut deeper here, at the place where Wei Ying had died - betrayed, hunted, and alone.


    “I protected him,” Lan Wangji said coldly, his voice low but filled with restrained fury. “When you turned your back on him, I stood by his side.”


    Jiang Cheng’s eyes blazed with anger, the old resentment flaring up like a fire that had never been extinguished. “You think protecting him makes you righteous?” he shouted, his voice trembling with rage. “You think that makes you better than the rest of us? He was a danger to everyone around him, and you - you sided with him, knowing exactly what he was.”


    Lan Wangji’s gaze remained cold and unflinching, even as A-Yuan, standing behind him, tensed at the escalating confrontation.


    “He was my brother!” Jiang Cheng continued, his voice cracking with the force of his emotion. “And you - ” He paused, his breath ragged as he tried to steady himself. “You have no idea what he cost me. My family, my sect - everything! He destroyed us. He destroyed everything we built.”


    Lan Wangji’s heart thundered with pain at hearing Wei Ying’s name twisted into a symbol of destruction. He had heard it all before, from the very people who had hunted Wei Ying to his death. But to hear it here, at the place where Wei Ying had fallen, was an affront to everything Lan Wangji had held onto for years.


    “He destroyed nothing,” Lan Wangji said, his voice sharp and unyielding. “You let him fall. You let him die. You turned your back on him.”


    Jiang Cheng’s eyes flashed with a mix of rage and something else—something darker, something filled with guilt. “He chose his own path,” Jiang Cheng growled, though his voice faltered slightly. “He chose it, and you know it. He created that chaos, and you stood by him, no matter the cost.”


    Lan Wangji’s eyes narrowed. “No,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “You pushed him to the edge. You, and the world that hunted him. Wei Ying sacrificed everything to protect those who could not protect themselves, including you. And you… you let him fall.”


    Jiang Cheng’s face twisted in fury, but his sword hand trembled. His eyes darted to A-Yuan, standing silently behind Lan Wangji, before returning to Lan Wangji’s cold gaze. “You don’t know anything about what he did to us,” Jiang Cheng spat, though his words wavered with the weight of his own unresolved grief. “You think you can hold him up as some martyr, but he - he destroyed everything!”


    “You destroyed him,” Lan Wangji said, his voice as cold as the night air. “And I will never forgive you for that.”


    The words hung in the air like a blade between them, cutting through the layers of anger and grief that had festered for years.


    Jiang Cheng’s breath hitched, his sword lowering slightly as the weight of Lan Wangji’s words crashed into him. For a moment, there was only silence between them, the sound of the wind howling over the edge of the cliff where Wei Ying had fallen so long ago.


    Finally, Jiang Cheng turned away, his sword still clenched tightly in his trembling hand. “You think you’re better than me, Lan Wangji?” he muttered, his voice barely audible. “You think you’re righteous because you stood by him? You didn’t save him. You couldn’t save him.”



    With those final, bitter words, Jiang Cheng disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lan Wangji standing alone at the edge of the cliff, the weight of their confrontation heavy in the air.


    Lan Wangji closed his eyes briefly, the anger and pain swirling in his chest. He looked down at A-Yuan, who was standing close to him now, his expression somber but strong.


    And as Lan Wangji stood there, his heart heavy with grief and anger, he silently vowed once again that no one - not Jiang Cheng, not the world - would take A-Yuan from him. He would protect Wei Ying’s legacy, even if it meant standing alone against the world.

     

    The moon hung low in the sky as Lan Wangji and A-Yuan began the quiet walk back to their secluded home. The air was thick with the tension left behind by Jiang Cheng’s bitter words, but neither Lan Wangji nor A-Yuan spoke. They had learned, in their years of living together, that silence was often more comforting than words.


    A-Yuan, though older now, still sought the quiet strength of his baba. He walked a step behind, his eyes fixed on the ground, his thoughts racing with the memory of Jiang Cheng’s anger. It wasn’t the first time he had heard someone speak of Wei Ying with such hatred, but it was the first time he had felt the full weight of those words.


    As they reached the edge of the forest, A-Yuan finally spoke, his voice soft and hesitant. “Baba,” he asked, his brow furrowed in thought, “why does he hate A-die so much?”


    Lan Wangji slowed his steps, his expression calm but contemplative. He had long known that A-Yuan would eventually ask this question, and he had prepared himself for the day when he would need to explain the complex web of love, betrayal, and sacrifice that had led to Wei Ying’s fall.


    “He blames Wei Ying for the losses he suffered,” Lan Wangji said quietly. “For the pain he endured. But Jiang Cheng never understood who Wei Ying truly was.”


    A-Yuan’s steps faltered slightly, his gaze turning upward to meet his baba’s. “I don’t understand,” he admitted softly. “Everyone says A-die was bad… but I don’t believe that.”


    Lan Wangji’s heart clenched at the confusion in A-Yuan’s voice. He stopped walking, turning to face the young man who had grown so much under his care. A-Yuan had inherited Wei Ying’s spirit - the strength to stand up for what was right, even in the face of misunderstanding and hatred.


    “You are right not to believe it,” Lan Wangji said gently, resting a hand on A-Yuan’s shoulder. “Wei Ying was not the man they claimed him to be. He fought to protect those who could not protect themselves, even when it cost him everything.”


    A-Yuan nodded, his expression serious as he absorbed his baba’s words. He had always felt a deep connection to Wei Ying, even though he had never known him in life. The stories Lan Wangji had shared over the years painted a picture of a man full of life and light, a man who had sacrificed himself to protect others. But the world’s version of Wei Ying had always been darker, more twisted by fear and hatred.


    “Do you miss him?” A-Yuan asked quietly, though he already knew the answer.


    Lan Wangji’s gaze softened, his eyes distant as they lingered on the memory of Wei Ying. “Every day,” he said softly. “Not a moment passes that I do not miss him.”


    A-Yuan’s heart ached at the sadness in his baba’s voice, but there was also a quiet determination that stirred within him. He had been raised with the knowledge of Wei Ying’s sacrifice, and though the world had turned against the man he called A-die, A-Yuan had never wavered in his belief that Wei Ying had done what was right.


    “I’ll never forget him,” A-Yuan said firmly, his voice filled with conviction. “I’ll carry his memory with me. Just like you do.”


    Lan Wangji’s chest tightened at the fierce loyalty in A-Yuan’s words. He had always known that A-Yuan would carry on Wei Ying’s legacy, but hearing it spoken aloud filled him with a bittersweet pride. The kid who had once been so small and fragile had grown into a strong, honorable boy - one who would carry the weight of both his fathers’ legacies with grace.


    “You honor him,” Lan Wangji said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “You carry his spirit within you.”


    A-Yuan smiled softly, his eyes bright with determination. “He’s part of me. Just like you are.”

     

    As the years continued to pass, A-Yuan’s cultivation grew stronger under Lan Wangji’s guidance. He had become a skilled swordsman, his movements precise and disciplined, mirroring the training he had received from his baba. He had also excell playing the guqin, his fingers moving over the strings with the same grace and care that Lan Wangji had taught him.


    But as A-Yuan grew stronger, Lan Wangji’s health began to wane. The years of carrying the physical and emotional weight of his past had taken their toll, and though he never complained, A-Yuan began to notice the subtle signs of his baba’s decline. The moments when Lan Wangji would pause to catch his breath, the way he winced when he thought no one was watching, and the increasing number of nights when he would sit in silence, his hand resting on the scars that lined his back.


    A-Yuan, now around 17 years old, began to worry. He had always seen his baba as invincible - strong, unwavering, the embodiment of the Lan Sect’s values. But now, he could see the strain in Lan Wangji’s movements, the exhaustion that crept into his eyes.


    One evening, as they sat by the fire in their small mountain home, A-Yuan finally spoke. “Baba,” he asked, his voice hesitant, “are you unwell?”


    Lan Wangji looked up from the guqin resting in his lap, his expression unreadable. He had always been careful to hide his pain, but A-Yuan had grown too perceptive to be fooled.

    “I am fine,” Lan Wangji said softly, though the weariness in his voice betrayed him.

    A-Yuan’s brow furrowed with concern. “You don’t have to hide it from me,” he said gently. “I can see it.”


    Lan Wangji remained silent for a long moment, his gaze falling to the strings of the guqin. He had always been the one to protect A-Yuan, to shield him from the harshness of the world, but now, as the weight of his own body began to fail him, he realized that he could no longer hide the truth.


    “I have lived with this pain for many years,” Lan Wangji admitted quietly. “The scars from the discipline whip have never fully healed. But it is not your burden to bear.”


    A-Yuan shook his head, his voice filled with quiet determination. “I’m not a child anymore, Baba. I want to help you, just like you’ve always helped me.”


    Lan Wangji’s heart ached at the earnestness in A-Yuan’s voice, but he could not bring himself to accept the boy’s help. He had always been the one to protect, to guide, to carry the burdens of others. The thought of relying on A-Yuan now, in his moments of weakness, felt too heavy to bear.


    “You have already helped me more than you know,” Lan Wangji said softly. “You are my greatest pride.”


    A-Yuan’s eyes filled with emotion, but he said nothing more. He knew that his baba was a man of few words, and that those words carried a weight that went beyond anything else. But deep down, A-Yuan couldn’t shake the growing fear that his time with his baba was slipping away.

     

    The truth about Wei Ying's death had been buried for years, hidden beneath layers of lies, manipulation, and the ambitions of the powerful. The Jin Sect, under the leadership of Jin Guangshan and his son, Jin Guangyao, had long maintained their dominance over the cultivation world, shaping the narrative that had cast Wei Ying as a villain. They had been at the forefront of the campaign against him, pushing the other sects to see him as a threat, as a demonic cultivator who needed to be destroyed.


    But now, years after Wei Ying's death, whispers of the truth had begun to surface. It started within the Jin Sect itself - minor members who had been involved in the events leading up to the massacre at the Nightless City began to speak out, their consciences weighed down by the lies they had helped perpetuate. They revealed what had truly happened - that Wei Ying had not been a villain, but a protector, fighting to save those who were powerless against the cruelty of the Jin sect.


    Documents surfaced, implicating Jin Guangshan and Jin Guangyao in the orchestration of Wei Ying's downfall. It was they who had manipulated the events that led to Wei Ying’s death, pushing the cultivation world to turn against him, all while hiding their own corruption and ambition. Jin Guangyao, who had always presented himself as kind-hearted and loyal, had played a key role in twisting the narrative, ensuring that Wei Ying was seen as a danger rather than the hero he had been.

    The revelation sent shockwaves through the cultivation world. The Jin Sect, once revered, was now seen for what it truly was - a corrupt and power-hungry institution that had sacrificed Wei Ying to further its own goals. And at the heart of it all was Jin Guangyao, the man who had been trusted by so many, including Lan Xichen, who had once called him a brother.

     

    The realization of what they had done struck each sect like a blow.


    Jiang Cheng, who had spent years hating his brother, sat alone in his chambers, the truth staring him in the face. He had believed the worst of Wei Ying, had let the lies of the Jin Sect poison his mind, and now he knew that Wei Ying had died trying to protect the innocent. The weight of his guilt was unbearable. He had pushed Wei Ying away, allowed the world to condemn him, and in the end, he had been wrong. Wei Ying hadn’t betrayed him...


    “Wei Ying…” Jiang Cheng whispered, his voice breaking with the weight of his sorrow. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

     

    Nie Huaisang, the cunning sect leader who had always known more than he let on, now saw the fruition of the seeds he had planted. Though he had been complicit in the lies, he had always harbored doubts about the narrative surrounding Wei Ying’s death. And now, as the truth spread, Nie Huaisang remained silent, watching as the world unraveled. He had orchestrated some of the chaos to take down Jin Guangyao, but even he hadn’t expected the full scope of the devastation.


    “Justice is always delayed,” Nie Huaisang muttered to himself, though there was little satisfaction in his words. Even he couldn’t undo the pain that had been caused.

     

    But no one was more devastated than Lan Xichen. For years, he had believed in Jin Guangyao, had trusted him as a brother, and now, the full weight of that betrayal came crashing down. Lan Xichen had always been the epitome of calm and wisdom, the steady leader of the Lan Sect, but now, as the truth about Jin Guangyao was revealed, he felt his foundation crumble beneath him.


    Sitting alone in his room, Lan Xichen stared at the letters and documents that had exposed Jin Guangyao’s role in Wei Ying’s downfall. His hands shook as he read through them, his heart aching with the realization that he had been blind to the man’s manipulation all along. Jin Guangyao had used him, had twisted the narrative to suit his own ambitions, and Lan Xichen had been too trusting to see it.

    “I trusted him,” Lan Xichen whispered, his voice thick with grief. “I trusted him, and he… he destroyed everything.”


    The betrayal felt like a knife in his chest, and for the first time in his life, Lan Xichen felt lost. He had always believed in justice, in doing what was right, but now he saw that he had failed - failed his brother, failed Wei Wuxian, and failed to potect the inocent's.


    Lan Xichen’s heart ached with the knowledge that Lan Wangji had been right all along. His younger brother had stood by Wei Ying when no one else had, and Lan Xichen had allowed his loyalty to Jin Guangyao to blind him to the truth. Now, he feared that it was too late to make amends.


    “Wuxian… Wangji… I failed you both,” Lan Xichen whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of his guilt. “How can I ever make this right?”

     

    The path to Lan Wangji’s secluded home was long and winding, surrounded by the quiet stillness of the mountains. As Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen approached, the soft rustling of the wind in the trees was the only sound. The weight of their mission pressed heavily on their hearts; they had come seeking forgiveness, but they feared it was too late.


    It had been years since they last saw Lan Wangji, and now, with the truth of Wei Ying's death laid bare, they knew they had failed him. They had failed to protect the man he loved, failed to understand the depth of his devotion, and failed to stand by him when he had needed them most.


    As they neared the small house where Lan Wangji had lived in isolation, Lan Xichen found himself glancing around at the surroundings. The house was modest but well-kept, a testament to the quiet, disciplined life Lan Wangji had led. The trees around it stood tall and still, as though guarding the solitude Lan Wangji had carved out for himself. But it was the sight of a young man standing quietly by the door that caused Lan Xichen's heart to tighten.


    The air inside the house was thick with tension and sorrow as Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen entered. The simplicity of the space, the quiet warmth of the fire in the hearth, and the sparse furnishings all reflected the life of discipline and isolation that Lan Wangji had lived. But it was the figure in the center of the room that immediately drew their gaze—Lan Wangji, seated at a low table, his back straight despite the obvious poor state he was in. His once-proud form was now thin, frail, his skin pale, and his breathing shallow.


    The years had taken their toll on him. His body, scarred by the punishment of the discipline whip, had never fully healed. Now, with illness ravaging him from the inside, his strength was waning. His hands trembled slightly as they rested on the table, and though his face remained composed, it was clear that every breath was a struggle. The quiet strength that had once defined him was fading.


    A-Yuan, who had come in with them, went to stand by his side, his eyes full of concern. He had known for months that Lan Wangji’s condition was worsening, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of seeing his baba like this—so vulnerable, so close to the end.


    When Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen entered, they both hesitated at the threshold, their hearts heavy with the weight of all they had done—and all they had failed to do.


    Lan Wangji’s gaze flickered to them, but his expression remained impassive. The years of silence between them lay like a wall, and neither man dared to speak.


    Finally, Lan Qiren knelt down before his nephew, his knees pressing into the wooden floor as he bowed his head in a gesture of humility. Lan Xichen followed suit, kneeling beside him, his heart heavy with grief and guilt. They had come seeking forgiveness, but they knew that forgiveness was not something easily given—not after everything that had happened.


    "Wangji..." Lan Qiren began, his voice trembling slightly. He had always been a man of strict rules and discipline, but here, in the face of his nephew’s impending death, those rules felt hollow. "I failed you. I forced you to choose between your duty and your heart..."


    Lan Wangji’s gaze remained steady, but there was a coldness in his eyes that had never been there before.


    Lan Xichen lowered his head further, his eyes burning with unshed tears. "Wangji, I believed in Jin Guangyao. I trusted him as a brother. I was wrong. I should have stood by you... and by Wuxian. But I didn’t..."


    Lan Wangji’s fingers trembled slightly as he placed his hand on the table for support. A-Yuan stepped closer, offering silent comfort, but still said nothing.


    Lan Xichen flinched at his brother’s silence. He had always prided himself on his wisdom, his sense of justice, but in the end, he had failed to see the truth. "I am so, so sorry."


    Lan Qiren, finally looking up, his eyes filled with regret, spoke. "I upheld the rules above all else," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "I thought I was protecting the sect. I thought I was protecting you. But I see now... I was wrong. I was blinded by tradition, and I lost sight of what truly mattered."


    "I stood alone," Lan Wangji said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I stood by him when no one else did. I bore the consequences, but I never wavered in my love for Wei Ying."


    There was a long silence, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the shallow rasp of Lan Wangji’s breathing.


    Finally, Lan Wangji turned his gaze to A-Yuan, who knelt beside him, his hand gently resting on his father’s arm. "This is my son," Lan Wangji said softly, his voice filled with quiet pride. "His name is Lan Yuan."


    Lan Qiren’s eyes widened at the declaration, but there was no protest in him.


    "You want him to return to the sect," Lan Xichen said softly, his gaze turning to A-Yuan. "To take his rightful place."


    Lan Wangji nodded slowly, the movement strained. "He is my son and my heir," he said, his voice faltering. "And I want him to return to Cloud Recesses with his family."


    Lan Qiren, though silent, felt a swell of pride in his chest. He had once been so rigid in his beliefs, but now, seeing the man A-Yuan had become, he realized that Lan Wangji had achieved something far greater than he could have imagined. He had raised a son.


    "Lan Yuan," Lan Qiren said quietly, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "You have honored your father in every way. And you will honor him again as part of the Lan Sect."


    A-Yuan looked up at his uncle, his expression filled with a quiet determination. "I will," he said softly. "I will honor him, and A-die."


    Lan Xichen’s gaze softened as he looked around the room, taking in the simplicity of the home that Lan Wangji had built. It was a place of peace, of reflection—a place where Lan Wangji had found his own path, away from the rigid traditions of the sect. He wondered if his brother had found peace here, in the quiet life he had built with his son.


    "Uncle... Lan Huan..." Lan Wangji whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. It was the first time in years that he had called them by their personal names, and the sound of it made both men freeze, their eyes filling with tears.


    "I forgive you," Lan Wangji said, his voice barely audible, but the words carried a weight that cut through the silence. "For everything."


    The room was silent for a long moment, the weight of those words settling over them like a heavy blanket. Lan Xichen bowed his head, tears slipping down his cheeks as he finally allowed himself to mourn.


    "I’m so proud of you," Lan Qiren said softly, his voice filled with emotion. "You have honored your family. You have raised a son to be proud of. And you have done more than I could ever have asked of you."

     

    The passing of Lan Wangji was a quiet affair, but its impact was deeply felt within the Lan Sect and in the hearts of those who had known him. His absence left a void in the mountains where he and Lan Yuan had once lived. In the wake of his departure, Lan Yuan—now known as the son of Lan Zhan—carried forward his legacy with unwavering strength.


    In the years that followed, Lan Yuan rose to prominence within the Lan Sect, not merely as Lan Wangji’s son but as a cultivator of great skill and wisdom in his own right. The quiet discipline instilled in him by his baba, and the compassionate heart inherited from his A-die, made him—after Lan Xichen stepped down from the position of Sect Leader—a leader who embodied the best of both worlds. Under his guidance, the sect flourished, not just in strength but in integrity.


    But despite his achievements, Lan Yuan never forgot where he came from or the sacrifices his fathers had made. In his heart, he carried their memories—Lan Wangji, who had raised him with unyielding devotion, and Wei Wuxian, the man who had sacrificed everything to protect the powerless.


    As part of his personal journey, Lan Yuan sought out the Jiang family, his A-die’s family, to understand more about his roots, even though he knew he was not Wei Ying’s biological son. His first encounter with Jiang Cheng had been cold and strained, the wounds of the past still raw between them. But Jiang Yanli, who had always loved her younger brother with tenderness, welcomed Lan Yuan with open arms. In her, he found the warmth of a family he had never known, and slowly, even Jiang Cheng softened, seeing in Lan Yuan the spirit of the brother he had lost.


    The Jiang family, once torn by tragedy, slowly began to heal with Lan Yuan’s presence. And as he grew closer to them, he learned more about Wei Ying—not just as a cultivator, but as a brother, a protector, and a friend. Though his A-die had been gone for many years, his spirit lived on in the stories they told and in the hearts of those who had loved him.


     

    Years passed, and with them came peace, though Lan Yuan often returned to the mountains where Lan Wangji had raised him, seeking solitude in the same quiet spaces his baba had once cherished. It was there, on a high cliff overlooking the vast valleys below, that he would sit in the evening hours, playing Inquiry on the guqin his father had passed down to him.


    On this particular night, the wind was gentle, and the stars blinked softly overhead as Lan Yuan placed his hands on the strings, his heart heavy with emotion. He had ound his place in Cloud Recesses, and he had honored both his fathers with every step of his journey. But even now, he longed for their presence, their guidance.



    As he played the familiar notes of Inquiry, his thoughts drifted to his baba. Lan Wangji had always been a man of few words, but his love had been ever-present, guiding him with quiet strength. Now, even in the wind, Lan Yuan could almost feel his baba’s hand on his shoulder, his presence in the air around him.


    “Baba…” Lan Yuan whispered softly into the night, his voice barely audible above the sound of the guqin. “I hope I’ve made you proud.”


    The wind stirred gently, carrying with it the echoes of the past. Though there was no reply, Lan Yuan felt the familiar warmth in his chest, a sense of peace that came only when he played for his baba. He closed his eyes, letting the music speak for him, trusting that his words would reach across the veil that separated them.

     

    In the quiet beyond the living world, there was a stillness that stretched across eternity. Lan Wangji stood on the edge of a peaceful river, the soft hum of the afterlife surrounding him. His heart, once weighed down by sorrow and longing, now felt light, free from the burdens he had carried in life.


    And there, waiting for him on the other side of the river, was Wei Ying.


    Wei Ying’s smile was as bright as it had ever been, his eyes shining with the mischievous warmth that had always drawn Lan Wangji to him. He stood with his arms open, as though no time had passed at all, as though they had been waiting for this reunion all along.


    “Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying called out, his voice full of the same playful affection that had once driven Lan Wangji to the brink of frustration and love. “You’re late.”


    Lan Wangji’s heart swelled at the sound of Wei Ying’s voice. He had spent so many years searching for him, aching for his presence, but now, standing here on the edge of eternity, he finally felt whole.


    Without hesitation, Lan Wangji crossed the river, his steps light and sure. As he reached Wei Ying, his hand reached out, and when their fingers intertwined, the world around them seemed to fade into a gentle warmth. The weight of the years, of all the pain and loss, melted away in that moment.


    Wei Ying’s eyes softened as he looked at Lan Wangji. “I knew you’d find me,” he said quietly, his voice filled with emotion.


    “I never stopped searching,” Lan Wangji replied, his voice steady but filled with the depth of all he had never said in life.


    They stood together in the soft glow of the afterlife, the bond between them unbreakable. The years they had spent apart no longer mattered. Here, in this place beyond life, there was only peace, only the quiet joy of being together once more.


    “Is A-Yuan well?” Wei Ying asked, his smile brightening at the thought of their son.


    Lan Wangji nodded, his heart swelling with pride. “He’s everything we hoped he would be.”


    Wei Ying’s eyes shimmered with tears, but his smile never wavered. “Good. I knew he would be.”


    And so, in the quiet peace of eternity, Lan Wangji and Wei Ying stood side by side, their hands intertwined, their hearts finally at rest. The world they had left behind continued, but here, together, they had found their eternal home.



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