The Wily Boy

The final part of Nie Mingjue's corpse, his head, was indeed here with Jin Guangyao.

Chifeng-Zun Nie Mingjue, who in the Sunshot Campaign had swept through all opposition with the fury of thunder, was bound by heavy restrictions and sealed within this dark, cramped secret chamber, never to see the light of day.

If Wei Wuxian undid the seal upon that head, Chifeng-Zun's body would sense it and come seeking on its own. He studied the helmet's restrictions for a moment, pondering how to begin, when suddenly an immensely strong pull seized him, and his flimsy paper body was yanked forward by a violent force, plastered directly onto Nie Mingjue's forehead.

On the other side of Koi Tower, Lan Wangji sat beside Wei Wuxian, his eyes fixed upon Wei Wuxian's face. After a long while his fingers stirred; lashes lowered, he raised a hand and touched his own lips, ever so softly.

So softly, so softly — every bit as soft as that paper figure's collision a moment ago.

Suddenly, Wei Wuxian's hands moved, his ten fingers curling into tight fists. Lan Wangji's gaze sharpened; he drew Wei Wuxian into his arms, lifted his face, and saw that though Wei Wuxian's eyes remained shut, his brows had furrowed deeply.

Back in the secret chamber, Wei Wuxian had no chance whatsoever to react. When a dead person's resentment is strong enough, it radiates outward without limit, pouring its own hatred and rancour into others, venting its fury and spreading its emotion — that is the root of many hauntings, and indeed the very principle of Empathy. Had Wei Wuxian been in his physical body, that body would have been a fortress for his soul: unless he consented, no resentment could assail him. But now that he was attached to a sheet of paper thin as a leaf, his defences were severely weakened. Nie Mingjue's resentment was ferociously strong, and with him so close, the paper was caught before he knew it. One moment his heart cried that disaster had struck; the next, he smelled the stench of blood.

He had not smelled blood this thick in years. Something deep in his bones awakened at once, tumultuous, boiling. His eyes opened to a flash of blade-light, a wash of blood, and a head soaring high while its body crashed to the ground.

The figure, severed from head to body, wore household robes with the Blazing Flame pattern upon its back. Wei Wuxian watched himself sheathe the blade, and heard a deep voice from his own lips: 'Take the head and string it up. Show it to the Wen curs.'

From behind came an answering: 'Yes!'

Wei Wuxian knew, now, whom the sword had beheaded in a single stroke.

It was Wen Ruohan's eldest son, Wen Xu of the Qishan Wen Sect. He had been cut down by Nie Mingjue at Hejian, struck through the neck in one blow, and his head was raised up before the lines to daunt the Wen cultivators. His body, in the fury of the Nie cultivators, was hacked to pieces and ground into a bloody paste smeared upon the earth.

Nie Mingjue swept his eyes over the corpse on the ground, kicked it aside, and rested a hand on his sabre-hilt as he slowly surveyed the field.

Chifeng-Zun was very tall. When Wei Wuxian entered Empathy with Aqing, his point of view had been very short; this time it stood noticeably above his usual height. Everywhere he looked, the dead and wounded lay thick: some in the Blazing Flame Robe, some bearing the beast-head insignia of the Qinghe Nie Sect upon their backs, and some with no clan mark at all, each roughly a third of the carnage — a scene so brutal the stench of blood reached the heavens. As he swept his gaze across, he strode forward, seeming to check whether any Wen cultivators still had breath left in them. Just then, the rattling creak of a tile-roofed shack nearby caught his ear. Nie Mingjue swung his long sabre, and a sharp blade-wind slashed through, splitting open the ramshackle door to reveal a mother and daughter cowering in terror. The shack was poor and bare, offering no place to hide; they crouched beneath a table, clutching each other so tightly they scarcely dared to breathe. In the young wife's wide-open eyes was mirrored Nie Mingjue, drenched in blood, thick with killing intent; her tears streamed down at once. But the girl in her arms had already opened her mouth, frozen with shock.

Nie Mingjue saw they were just an ordinary mother and daughter — no doubt civilians who had had no time to flee once the battle began — and his tight-knitted brow relaxed a fraction. One of his subordinates had followed behind and, not knowing the situation, called: 'Sect-leader?'

The mother and daughter knew only that they had been living their peaceful days when several bands of cultivators suddenly arrived to kill one another until the sky itself went dark. They had no idea which side was right or wrong; they were simply terrified at the sight of swords and blades, and certain they would die. Their expressions grew ever more fearful. Nie Mingjue looked at them, reined in his killing aura, and said: 'It's all right.'

He lowered his sword-hand and strode steadily away. The young wife instantly slumped to the ground with her daughter in her arms; after a long moment she could no longer hold back small, choked sobs.

Having walked a few paces, Nie Mingjue abruptly halted and asked the subordinate behind: 'When we cleaned the battlefield last time, who was left to hold the rearguard till the end?'

That subordinate paused briefly. 'The rearguard? Well... I didn't keep a careful record...'

Nie Mingjue frowned. 'Find out — and tell me.'

He continued forward. That cultivator hurried off to ask the others and soon caught up: 'Sect-leader! It's been clarified. The one who stayed last to clean the battlefield last time was a cultivator named Meng Yao.'

At the name, Nie Mingjue's brow lifted a fraction — evident surprise.

Wei Wuxian understood why. Before Jin Guangyao was received into his father's clan, he had used his mother's surname; his name had been Meng Yao — hardly a secret. And that name had once been 'famous' indeed.

Few had seen with their own eyes what it was like the first time Lianfang-Zun Jin Guangyao mounted Koi Tower — he who in later days could overturn clouds and summon rain with a turn of his hand — yet the rumours were detailed enough. Jin Guangyao's mother had once been a celebrated figure in a pleasure house in Yunmeng, a courtesan famed for her beauty and talent: she played the qin exquisitely, wrote a fine hand, and was as cultured as any well-bred lady, perhaps even finer. Yet however fine, once spoken aloud, a prostitute was still a prostitute. When Jin Guangshan happened to pass through Yunmeng, he naturally could not miss this famous beauty of the moment. He dallied with Madam Meng for several days, left a token behind, thoroughly satisfied, and drifted away. Once he was gone, she was cast to the back of his mind, exactly as he had done so many times before.

By comparison, Mo Xuanyu and his mother had been rather favoured — at least Jin Guangshan had later remembered such a son existed and brought him back to Koi Tower. Meng Yao had no such fortune. The son of a prostitute could not hope to be treated as a child of a respectable house. Madam Meng bore Jin Guangshan a son alone, and, like Second Madam Mo, waited and waited, longing with all her heart for that immortal lord to return and bring them home. She carefully instructed Meng Yao, preparing him for advancement into a cultivation sect. But the boy reached his teens without any word from his father, while Madam Meng had fallen gravely ill.

On her deathbed, she gave her son the token Jin Guangshan had left and told him to seek a path at Koi Tower. So Meng Yao packed his travelling gear and set out from Yunmeng, crossed mountains and rivers, and arrived at Lanling. At the foot of Koi Tower he was turned away; he brought out the token and asked the servants to announce him.

The token Jin Guangshan had left was a pearl button. In the Lanling Jin Sect this was no rare item — it could be picked up by the handful. Its commonest use was as a parting gift when Jin Guangshan roamed about plucking wild flowers, given to beauties as a shiny little trinket passed off as a rare jewel, accompanied by grand vows of undying love and promises extending to the next life. Given at whim, and at once forgotten.

Meng Yao had chosen a singularly unfortunate moment: the day of Jin Zixuan's birthday. Jin Guangshan and Madam Jin were holding a banquet for their treasured son, with many relatives of the household in attendance. Three double-hours later, when the sky was already dark and they were about to step out to release lanterns and offer prayers, the household servant finally found a gap to inform them. Madam Jin saw that pearl button and recalled Jin Guangshan's countless past indiscretions; her face blackened on the spot. Jin Guangshan hurriedly crushed the pearl to powder, loudly berated the servant, and ordered him to drive the person outside away — on no account let him be encountered when the family went out to release the lanterns.

Thus, Meng Yao was kicked straight down from Koi Tower — from the very topmost step all the way to the bottom.

It was said that after he picked himself up, he said not a word, wiped the blood from his forehead, dusted off his clothes, and left, carrying his bundle.

After the Sunshot Campaign began, Meng Yao threw in his lot with the Qinghe Nie Sect.

The Qinghe Nie cultivators under Nie Mingjue, together with recruited free cultivators, were encamped in several locations, one of them in an unnamed mountain range in Hejian. Nie Mingjue climbed the slope on foot; from a distance, before he drew near, he saw a youth in plain cloth emerging from the deep-green woods, carrying a bamboo tube.

The youth appeared to have just returned from fetching water, his step a little weary. He was on the verge of entering the cave when he suddenly stopped. Standing outside, he listened intently for a time, as if unsure whether he ought to go in; in the end he simply took the bamboo tube and turned silently toward another direction.

After a short distance, he found a spot by the roadside and crouched down, drew out a piece of dry white provision from inside his robe, and began slowly washing it down with clean water.

Nie Mingjue walked toward him. The youth had his head bent over his food when a tall shadow fell across him; he lifted his head, hastily put away the dry provisions, and stood up. 'Sect-leader Nie.'

He was slightly built, pale of face, with brows the colour of kingfisher — precisely the boyishly fine-featured face that served Jin Guangyao so well. At this time he had not yet gone to Koi Tower to be acknowledged, so there was naturally no vermilion mark of resolve between his brows. Nie Mingjue clearly remembered his face. 'Meng Yao?'

Meng Yao answered with great deference: 'Yes.'

Nie Mingjue said: 'Why not go inside the cave and rest, like everyone else?'

Meng Yao opened his mouth, then smiled rather awkwardly, as though unsure how to reply. Nie Mingjue stepped past him toward the cave. Meng Yao looked as if he wanted to hold him back but did not dare. Nie Mingjue had muffled his presence, so no one within noticed his arrival; inside they were still chatting cheerfully and loudly:

'...Yeah, that's him all right.'

'No way! Jin Guangshan's son? Can Jin Guangshan's son have fallen as low as us? Why doesn't he go back to his father? Just lifting a finger would spare him all this drudgery.'

'You think he doesn't want to? He trudged all the way from Yunmeng to Lanling with that token — all just to claim his father.'

'Well, he miscalculated. Jin Guangshan's old lady's got a temper.'

'Not to speak ill, but Jin Guangshan's sired so many bastards out there he must have at least a dozen. You seen him acknowledge a single one? Making a scene like that only humiliated himself.'

'A person shouldn't set his hopes on what he doesn't deserve. He gets bashed and bloodied — whose fault is that? Nobody's. He brought it on himself.'

'Stupid! With Jin Zixuan already there, what would Jin Guangshan want with another son? Besides, this one's whelped by a whore who's been ridden by a thousand men, so who the hell knows whose seed it is. I bet Jin Guangshan's having doubts too, and that's why he won't claim him! Hahahaha...'

'Nah, I think he simply doesn't remember ever having had a fling with that woman.'

'Funny thing is, the idea of Jin Guangshan's spawn having to fetch water for us — I'm actually pretty pleased about it. Hahaha...'

'Accept his fate, my arse. He's trying his damnedest — haven't you seen how hard he works? Running around all day doing this and that, so attentive, just dying to make a name for himself so his father will take him back.'

A fire kindled in Nie Mingjue's heart and burned straight through to Wei Wuxian's chest.

His hand slammed onto the sabre-hilt, and Meng Yao hastily reached out to stop him, but failed. The blade was already drawn; a boulder in front of the cave came crashing down. Inside, the several dozen cultivators who had been resting shot to their feet in fright, drawing their swords all at once, while their drinking-water bamboo tubes clattered to the floor. Then Nie Mingjue roared: 'Drinking water they brought for you while you spout venomous filth! Did you join my banner to spurn killing Wen curs and come wag your tongues instead?!'

Within the cave came a flurry of panic. None dared speak: everyone knew Chifeng-Zun's temper, and that the more one tried to excuse oneself, the higher his rage would flare — today they would not escape punishment; they could only honestly admit their fault. Nie Mingjue gave a cold laugh. He did not enter the cave but said to Meng Yao: 'Come with me.'

He turned and walked down the mountain; Meng Yao fell in behind him. As the pair went a while longer, Meng Yao's head drooped lower and lower, and his footsteps grew ever heavier.

At length he managed: 'My thanks, Sect-leader Nie.'

Nie Mingjue said: 'A true man stands straight and acts with integrity. Pay no heed to the loose talk of idle people.'

Meng Yao nodded. 'Yes.'

Though he answered thus, his face was still stained with a thread of worry. Nie Mingjue had stepped forward for him today and held them at bay for a time, but those cultivators would surely repay it a hundredfold later — how could he not be troubled?

But Nie Mingjue went on: 'The more these people rant behind your back, the more you must leave them nothing to say. I've watched you in formation. You are always at the front, and always the last to leave, guiding and settling the common folk. You do it well. Keep at it.'

At that, Meng Yao blinked, his head lifting a little. Nie Mingjue added: 'Your sword-work is light and agile, yet its foundation is unsteady. You must practise more.'

This was already plain encouragement. Meng Yao replied quickly: 'Thank you for the guidance, Sect-leader Nie.'

But Wei Wuxian knew in his heart: he could practise and still never gain stability. Jin Guangyao was not like the sons of established cultivation clans; his foundation was too poor, and he would never climb to a higher level. In cultivation, therefore, he could only seek breadth and width, never refinement or depth. That was why he would eventually master the strengths of a hundred schools and dabble in their secret skills — and also why he would later be denounced as ‘the thief of techniques.’

Hejian was a strategic point in the Sunshot Campaign and Nie Mingjue's main battlefield — a wall of bronze and iron thrust between the Qishan Wen Sect and their expansion east and south. The Qinghe Nie Sect and the Qishan Wen Sect had old grievances long suppressed; once war broke out, the two sides clashed in battles too numerous to count, every one of them bitter and unrelenting, while the common folk of the Hejian region suffered sorely. The Qishan Wen Sect of course never cared; the Qinghe Nie Sect could not afford not to care.

Under such circumstances, Meng Yao, who tirelessly cleared the field and soothed the civilians after each battle, drew ever more attention from Nie Mingjue. Before long, Nie Mingjue had promoted him to his side as a deputy. Meng Yao seized the chance and accomplished every task he was given reliably. Hence, Jin Guangyao at this time, far from suffering the stern reprimands he would later so often receive from Nie Mingjue, enjoyed considerable esteem and trust. For Wei Wuxian, who had heard too many jesting accounts of ‘Lianfang-Zun fleeing the moment he heard Chifeng-Zun arrive,’ watching Meng Yao get along so harmoniously — even swimmingly — with Nie Mingjue felt utterly surreal.

One day, the Hejian battlefield welcomed a visitor.

In the Sunshot Campaign, fine tales surrounded each of the Three Venerables. Chifeng-Zun Nie Mingjue was invincible wherever he passed, leaving not a single Wen cur standing. Zewu-jun Lan Xichen, by contrast — after the Gusu region was stabilised and Lan Qiren held the home ground — frequently went out to bring aid, rescuing people from dire straits; during the Sunshot Campaign he recovered lost territory and snatched lives from the tiger's jaws countless times. So whenever people heard his name, they were overjoyed, as though they had been given a renewed chance at life, a trump card for survival.

Each time Lan Xichen escorted other cultivators through Hejian, he would pause briefly there as a staging-point. Nie Mingjue himself ushered him into a bright, spacious hall, where several cultivators were already seated.

Although Lan Xichen's features were nearly identical to Lan Wangji's, Wei Wuxian could tell them apart at a glance. Even so, at the sight of that face his heart could not help stirring, and he thought: ‘I wonder how my body is now. If the paper-cutting avatar has been invaded by resentment, will my physical body also go wrong? Will Lan Zhan notice something amiss?’

After a few courtesies, Meng Yao, who had been standing in attendance behind Nie Mingjue, stepped forward and set cups of tea before each guest. On the battlefield one man had to do the work of six; there were simply no spare menials or serving-women, so Jin Guangyao, as deputy, took on these ordinary chores himself. When several cultivators recognised his face, they paused, then showed various expressions. Jin Guangshan's ‘gallant anecdotes’ had always travelled fast and wide as a topic of gossip: Meng Yao had once been something of a celebrated laughing-stock, and a few of them indeed knew him. Likely thinking that the son of a prostitute must carry something unclean on his person, they did not drink from the cups he reverently presented, setting them aside instead, and produced snow-white handkerchiefs with which they repeatedly, pointedly, wiped the fingers that had touched the cups, looking greatly discomforted. Nie Mingjue was not a man of fine perception and noticed none of these details, but Wei Wuxian caught them with the corner of his eye. Meng Yao acted as though he saw nothing; his smile did not dip, and he continued serving. Lan Xichen, when he received his cup, raised his eyes toward him for a moment and said with a slight smile: ‘Thank you.’

Then he bent his head and drank, and only then continued talking with Nie Mingjue. The other cultivators, seeing this, began to look a little ill at ease.

Nie Mingjue, habitually stern and sparing of smiles, had softened his expression for Lan Xichen. ‘How long will you stay?’

Lan Xichen replied: ‘I shall impose upon Brother Mingjue's domain for one night. Tomorrow I depart to join Wangji.’

Nie Mingjue asked: ‘To where?’

Lan Xichen said: ‘To Jiangling.’

Nie Mingjue frowned. ‘Jiangling is still in Wen-curs' hands.’

Lan Xichen answered: ‘It ceased to be so two days ago. It is now in the hands of the Yunmeng Jiang Clan.’

One of the clan-leaders said: ‘Sect-leader Nie may not know yet — Sect-leader Jiang of Yunmeng has been cutting quite a figure in that region.’

Another added: ‘How could he not? Wei Wuxian alone is worth a million soldiers — who does he still have to fear? And he has no need to flee with his life at stake as we do, merely sitting steady on one front. The luck of it... ’

Sensing the sour note, someone said hastily: ‘Ah, but thanks to Zewu-jun and Hanguang-jun lending their support everywhere, countless houses and innocent civilians might otherwise have fallen to the Wen curs.’

Nie Mingjue said: ‘Your younger brother is over there?’

Lan Xichen nodded. ‘He took his party there in the first ten-day of the month.’

Nie Mingjue remarked: ‘Your brother's cultivation is very high. He alone would be sufficient. Why then do you still go?’

Hearing Nie Mingjue praise Lan Wangji's high cultivation, Wei Wuxian felt inexplicably pleased and thought: ‘Chifeng-Zun, you have an excellent eye.’

Lan Xichen sighed. ‘I'm ashamed to say, since Wangji went, he seems to have fallen out quite badly with that Young Master Wei of the Yunmeng Jiang Clan. I felt I should go and see.’

Nie Mingjue said: ‘What happened?’

A guest answered: ‘It seems Hanguang-jun quarrelled with Wei Wuxian because his means are too perverse and bizarre. They say Hanguang-jun denounced Wei Wuxian to his face — accused him of desecrating corpses, cruelty and bloodthirst, and losing his true nature. Yet word from the battle of Jiangling makes Wei Wuxian out to be something almost divine. Should the chance arise, I would like to see it for myself.’

This man's words were already mild. Exaggerated versions had Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian killing Wen curs and fighting each other on the battlefield at the same time. In truth, their rapport back then was not so much fire and water, mutual loathing, as the rumours made it — but there had been small frictions all the same. During that period, Wei Wuxian spent every day unearthing burial mounds, and Lan Wangji was forever picking the sorest words to say, telling him it harmed both body and heart, that it was no proper path, even directly intervening to stop him. And nearly every few days they had a frontal clash or an ambush against the Wen curs, so their tempers and harsh energy were both heavy, and their meetings often ended unhappily. Now, as Wei Wuxian heard people talk of these things, it felt like a different lifetime — and then he recalled: it was not ‘like’ one; it truly was another lifetime.

One guest said: ‘In my view, Hanguang-jun truly needn't be so. The living are nearly dead as it is; why bother with the corpses of the dead?’

Another chimed in: ‘Exactly. These are desperate times. As Sect-leader Jiang said, where wickedness is concerned, who is more wicked than the Wen curs? So long as he stands on our side and kills Wen curs, is that not enough?’

Wei Wuxian thought to himself: ‘That was not what you said when you later laid siege against me.’

Soon after, Lan Xichen rose with his men, and Meng Yao led them away to their resting quarters. Nie Mingjue returned to his own room, took up a long slender sword, and went, carrying it, to find Lan Xichen.

Who could have expected that before he drew near, he would hear two voices within talking. Lan Xichen said: ‘What a coincidence: you turned up under Brother Mingjue's banner, and became his deputy.’

Meng Yao replied: ‘All thanks to Chifeng-Zun's favour and promotion.’

Lan Xichen laughed. ‘Brother Mingjue's temper blazes like fire; to have gained his favour and promotion is truly no easy thing.’ He paused, then added: ‘Lately, Sect-leader Jin of Lanling has been struggling quite bitterly around Langya, and is broadly seeking capable men.’

Meng Yao paused for a fraction of a second. ‘Zewu-jun, you mean... ’

Lan Xichen said: ‘No need to stand on such ceremony. I recall you once told me you hoped to obtain a place in the Lanling Jin Sect and gain your father's recognition. Now that you have found a foothold under Brother Mingjue, a field where you can show your abilities, does that hope still hold?’

Meng Yao seemed to hold his breath. After a long silence he answered: ‘...It still holds.’

Lan Xichen said: ‘I thought as much.’

Meng Yao said: ‘But I am already Chifeng-Zun's deputy. Sect-leader Nie has been a benefactor to me and recognised my capabilities; whether it still holds or not, I cannot leave Hejian.’

Lan Xichen pondered briefly. ‘That is true. Even if you wished to go, it would be difficult to bring up. Yet I believe that if you did ask, Brother Mingjue would respect your choice. And should he refuse to let you go, I could put in a word or two.’

Suddenly Nie Mingjue spoke: ‘Why would I refuse?’

He pushed the door open and entered. Lan Xichen and Meng Yao had been sitting opposite one another; both wore grave looks. At the sight of him they were slightly startled. Meng Yao stood up sharply, but before he could speak, Nie Mingjue said: ‘Sit.’

Meng Yao did not move. Nie Mingjue continued: ‘Tomorrow I shall write you a letter of recommendation.’

Meng Yao said: ‘Sect-leader Nie?’

Nie Mingjue said: ‘Take this letter to Langya, and seek out your father.’

Meng Yao hurriedly replied: ‘Sect-leader Nie, if you heard everything just now, you must have heard me say...’

Nie Mingjue cut him off: ‘I promoted you not so you would owe me the debt of recognition. I simply thought your ability was sufficient, and your conduct suited my wishes; you deserved to be in that position. If you truly wish to repay me, then kill a few more Wen curs on the battlefield!’

At that, Meng Yao — habitually so eloquent — was utterly choked. Lan Xichen laughed: ‘You see, I told you: Brother Mingjue would respect your choice.’

Meng Yao's eyes reddened. ‘Sect-leader Nie... Zewu-jun... I...’

He bowed his head. ‘...I truly know not what to say.’

Nie Mingjue sat. ‘Then say nothing.’

He placed the sword he was carrying onto the table. Lan Xichen saw it and laughed: ‘Huaisang's sword?’

Nie Mingjue said: ‘He may be safe with you, but he must not neglect his training. Have someone keep an eye on him when free; next time we meet I shall test his sword forms and mental techniques.’

Lan Xichen stored Nie Huaisang's sword into his qiankun sleeve. ‘Huaisang had excused himself by saying he left the sword at home, but now he'll have no excuse to slack.’

Nie Mingjue asked: ‘Speaking of which — so you two have met before?’

Meng Yao replied: ‘Zewu-jun and I have indeed met.’

Nie Mingjue said: ‘Where? When?’

Lan Xichen laughed and shook his head. ‘Better not speak of it. It is the deepest shame of my life. Brother Mingjue, ask no more.’

Nie Mingjue said: ‘Before me, there is no need to fear disgrace. Meng Yao, tell.’

Meng Yao, however, replied: ‘Since Zewu-jun prefers not to tell, I too can only keep the secret.’

The three of them spoke in turn — now serious business, now idle talk — far more easy and relaxed than in the meeting hall earlier. Listening to them chat, Wei Wuxian could not help wanting to jump in, yet he could not, and thought: ‘At this moment, the feeling among them is truly not bad. Zewu-jun is quite the conversationalist; how is it that Lan Zhan is so poor at conversation? Still, since he's no talker, shutting up is also fine — I do all the talking, and he just listens and goes “Mm, mm.” That's quite nice, really. What's that phrase... ’

A few days later, Meng Yao, carrying Nie Mingjue's letter of recommendation, left Hejian and set out for Langya.

After his departure, Nie Mingjue took on another deputy, but to Wei Wuxian's perception, everything now lagged by half a beat. Meng Yao had been a rare sort — sharp, quick-witted, and deft: what was left unsaid he could divine; what was said three-tenths he could carry out to full measure; he moved cleanly and swiftly, never dragging his feet. Once one grew used to him, it was impossible not to compare anyone else and find them wanting.

Some time later, the Lanling Jin Sect, struggling bitterly at Langya, could hold out no longer. Lan Xichen had just departed to aid another region, so Jin Guangshan redirected his plea for help toward Hejian, and Nie Mingjue came in response.

Once the battle ended, Jin Guangshan, badly battered, came over to give his thanks. Nie Mingjue spoke to him succinctly, then asked: ‘Sect-leader Jin, what is it that Meng Yao does now?’

Jin Guangshan, hearing that name, said: ‘Meng Yao? This... You must forgive me, Sect-leader Nie, but who might that be?’

Nie Mingjue's brow immediately furrowed. The affair of Meng Yao being kicked down the steps of Koi Tower had been circulating for a long time. Even outsiders knew of that farce; the man himself could not possibly have forgotten that name. Anyone with a slightly thin skin would have been too ashamed to feign ignorance — but Jin Guangshan's skin was by no means thin.

Nie Mingjue said coldly: ‘Meng Yao was my former deputy. I wrote a letter for him to bring.’

Jin Guangshan continued his pretence: ‘Is that so? I neither saw any such letter nor encountered that person. Ah, had I known Sect-leader Nie had sent a deputy, I would have seen him well entertained. But might there have been some mistake along the way?’

He merely brushed it aside with ‘can't recall’ and ‘never heard of him.’ Nie Mingjue's face grew colder by the moment, sensing that something was amiss, and took his leave without any courtesy. He questioned other cultivators for a while, found nothing, made his way to a few places, and, walking at random, passed through a small wooded grove.

The grove was secluded and still; it had just seen a stealthy slaughter, the field not yet cleared. Everywhere Nie Mingjue walked, he passed the bodies of cultivators wearing the insignia of the Wen Sect, the Jin Sect, and, in small number, other houses.

Suddenly, from ahead came a soft, wet sound — ‘tsss-tsss.’

Nie Mingjue laid his hand upon his sabre-hilt and crept toward it. Parting the leaves, he saw Meng Yao standing amidst the corpses, turning his wrist as he drew a longsword out of a cultivator's chest.

Meng Yao's expression was utterly cold and composed; his movements were swift and steady, cautious to the extreme — not a drop of blood had touched him.

The sword was not his own: the pommel had iron flame-shaped fittings — a Wen cultivator's sword.

And the style was a Wen sword-style.

The man lying dead beneath that blade wore the Sparks Amidst Snow Robe. He was a cultivator of the Lanling Jin Sect.

Nie Mingjue took in the whole scene without a word. He drew his blade an inch free of its sheath with a sharp, metallic ring.

At that familiar sound of steel, Meng Yao gave a violent shudder, spun around in terror, his very soul about to fly: ‘...Sect-leader Nie?’

Nie Mingjue drew the long sabre fully from its sheath. The blade-light was snow-bright, but the edge held a faint blood-red tint. Wei Wuxian could feel the towering fury pouring from him, along with disillusionment and bitter hatred.

No one knew Nie Mingjue's character better than Meng Yao. He flung his sword away with a clatter and cried: ‘Sect-leader Nie, Sect-leader Nie! Wait, please wait! Let me explain!’

Nie Mingjue roared: ‘What do you have to explain?!’

Meng Yao scrambled and crawled over to him. ‘I had no choice! I had no choice!’

Nie Mingjue bellowed in rage: ‘What do you mean you had no choice?! What did I say when I sent you here?!’

Meng Yao knelt prostrate at his feet. ‘Sect-leader Nie, Sect-leader Nie, hear me! I joined the Lanling Jin banner, and this man was my superior officer. He looked down on me from the start; he insulted and beat me constantly...’

Nie Mingjue cut in: ‘So you killed him?’

Meng Yao said: ‘No! Not for that! Insults I can endure — why could I not endure mere blows and curses? But every time we seized one of the Wen's strongholds, after I had toiled and racked my heart devising plans and charging into the front lines of battle, he would casually say a few words, lift a brush, and claim the battle merits for himself, saying I had no part in it. This was not the first, nor the second — it was every time, every time! I argued with him, and he cared nothing. I sought help from others, and no one would hear me. Just now he said my mother, my mother was... I truly could bear it no longer; my head swam with rage, and my hand slipped!’

In his extreme terror he spoke at a racing speed, as if afraid Nie Mingjue would hack him down before he could finish, yet his account remained perfectly clear, each phrase emphasising how detestable the other man was and how innocent he himself was. Nie Mingjue seized him by the collar and hauled him upright. ‘You are lying!’

Meng Yao shuddered. Nie Mingjue fixed his eyes upon him, pronouncing each word separately: ‘You could bear it no longer, your head swam with rage and your hand slipped? When a man's head is swimming with rage and he takes a life, does his face look as yours did just then? Would he deliberately choose this hidden grove just after a slaughter? Would he purposely use a Wen sword and Wen sword-style to kill him, disguising it as a Wen sneak-attack, pinning the blame elsewhere? You schemed this with cold deliberation — long plotted!’

Meng Yao raised his hand as though taking an oath. ‘I speak the truth! Every word is true!’

Nie Mingjue roared: ‘Even if true, you still had no right to kill him! For a scrap of battle merit! You care so much for that hollow glory?!’

Meng Yao murmured: ‘A scrap of battle merit?’

His voice trembled: ‘...What do you mean, a scrap of battle merit? Chifeng-Zun, do you know how much blood and sweat I poured into this scrap? How much suffering I endured? Hollow glory? Without this hollow glory, I have nothing!’

Nie Mingjue looked at the tears brimming in his eyes, at his trembling form — so violently at odds with the cold, collected killer of a moment ago that the shock was overwhelming, the earlier image not yet faded. He said: ‘Meng Yao, let me ask you: the first time I saw you, were you deliberately putting on that bullied, helpless act for me to see, so that I would stand up for you? If I had not stood up for you, would you, as you did today, have killed every last one of them?’

Meng Yao's Adam's apple moved; a drop of cold sweat slid down. He was about to speak when Nie Mingjue barked: ‘Do not lie to my face!’

Meng Yao jumped. He swallowed his words, knelt upon the ground, trembling all over, his right hand clenching deep into the soil.

After a long pause, Nie Mingjue slowly slid the sabre back into its sheath. ‘I will not touch you.’

Meng Yao's head snapped up. Nie Mingjue went on: ‘Go to the Lanling Jin Sect yourself, confess, and accept your punishment. Be dealt with as you should be.’

Meng Yao stared blankly for a moment, then said: ‘...Chifeng-Zun, I cannot stumble at this step.’

Nie Mingjue said: ‘You have taken the wrong step.’

Meng Yao said: ‘This is asking for my life.’

Nie Mingjue replied: ‘If what you say is true, it won't cost you your life. Go. Repent and mend your ways.’

Meng Yao said softly: ‘...My father has yet to set eyes on me.’

It was not that Jin Guangshan had failed to set eyes on him.

It was that he pretended not to know of his existence.

In the end, under Nie Mingjue's pressure, Meng Yao forced out, with difficulty, a single ‘Yes.’

After a silence, Nie Mingjue said: ‘Stand up.’

As if utterly drained of strength, Meng Yao rose from the ground in a daze and staggered a few steps. Nie Mingjue, seeing he seemed about to fall, caught him by the arm. Meng Yao murmured: ‘...Thank you, Sect-leader Nie.’

Nie Mingjue looked at his dazed, spiritless state and turned away — but suddenly he heard: ‘...No, this still won't do.’

Nie Mingjue wheeled around. Meng Yao, at some unknowable moment, had a longsword in his hand.

He had already levelled the point at his own belly, his expression one of utter despair: ‘Sect-leader Nie, I have failed your great kindness.’

He drove the blade in with force. Nie Mingjue's pupils contracted; he snatched at the sword to stop him, but it was already too late: the blade in Meng Yao's hand pierced clean through his belly in an instant, emerging from his back, and his whole body collapsed into the pool of blood beside him.

Nie Mingjue froze for a breath, then rushed forward, half-knelt, and turned Meng Yao's body over. ‘You...!!!’

Meng Yao's face was ghastly pale. He looked up at Nie Mingjue weakly, gave a bitter smile, and said: ‘Sect-leader Nie, I...’

He did not finish. His head sank slowly. Nie Mingjue supported his body, keeping clear of the blade; he pressed his hand against Meng Yao's heart and channelled a stream of Spiritual Power. Who could have foreseen that Nie Mingjue's body would suddenly shudder: from Meng Yao's belly came a steady flow of icy-cold spiritual current.

Wei Wuxian had long known there was a trick, so he was not particularly surprised. But Nie Mingjue could never, in his wildest reckoning, have imagined that Meng Yao would truly strike against him. So when, utterly immobilised, he watched Meng Yao slowly raise himself up from before him, his heart was still gripped more by shock than by fury.

Meng Yao must have calculated with care how to avoid the vital points. With deliberate composure he drew the longsword out of his own belly, baring its blood-red blade and a string of glistening crimson droplets; he pressed the wound, and thus finished tending to it. Nie Mingjue still held the posture of reaching to save him, half-kneeling, his head slightly lifted, and met Meng Yao's eyes.

Nie Mingjue said nothing. Nor did Meng Yao. He slid his sword into its sheath, bowed once formally toward Nie Mingjue, and fled without looking back.

To obediently confess his fault one moment, agree to submit to punishment, then the next moment stage a false suicide by trickery, land a blow in secret, and vanish without a trace — Nie Mingjue had probably never before met so brazenly shameless a person, and this person was one he himself had promoted and trusted. He flew into a towering rage, and fought against the Wen cultivators with exceptional savagery. When Lan Xichen finally managed to snatch a break and rushed to aid Langya a few days later, Nie Mingjue's fury had not abated in the least. The moment Lan Xichen arrived he laughed: ‘Brother Mingjue has a blazing temper. Where is Meng Yao? Why is he not here to quench your fire?’

Nie Mingjue said: ‘Do not speak that name before me!’

He related to Lan Xichen, exactly as it had happened, the tale of how Meng Yao had committed murder and shifted blame, then faked his death and fled. When Lan Xichen had heard it through, he, too, was taken aback. ‘How could this be? Is there some misunderstanding?’

Nie Mingjue replied: ‘I caught him in the act. What misunderstanding can there be?’

Lan Xichen considered a moment. ‘Judging by his account, the man he killed was truly at fault. But he certainly should not have taken it upon himself to kill. In these desperate times, it is indeed hard to judge. I wonder where he has gone now?’

Nie Mingjue exclaimed fiercely: ‘Let him pray he never falls into my hands! If he does, I shall offer him up to my blade!’

And yet, his words proved prophetic: in the years that followed, Meng Yao seemed to disappear from the face of the earth, sinking like a stone in the ocean, leaving no trace whatsoever.

As much as Nie Mingjue had formerly esteemed and valued Meng Yao, so deeply did he now detest him. Whenever the name was mentioned, his face filled with fury, and one could scarcely begin to recount it. Once he was certain there was no news, he refused to discuss the man with anyone further.

Nie Mingjue was by nature distant, rarely opening his heart to anyone. He had found, with great difficulty, an able, reliable, and deeply trusted confidant — a subordinate whose ability and character he both approved of. To discover that the man's true face was nothing like what he had believed — it was no wonder his reaction was so fierce.

Wei Wuxian had just been thinking thus when a splitting headache struck him. His whole skeleton felt as if it had been crushed beneath a war chariot; the slightest movement produced a grating creak, and he was utterly unable to stir. When he opened his eyes, his sight was so blurred he could barely make out the cold black-jade floor of the great hall, and the many human silhouettes slouched and collapsed upon it. Nie Mingjue appeared to have suffered a head wound; the area had long gone numb, dried blood caking over his eyes and face. A slight movement, and fresh warm blood crawled down from his forehead.

Wei Wuxian was astonished.

In the Sunshot Campaign, Nie Mingjue had been nearly invincible; enemies could not even come near him, let alone inflict such heavy wounds.

What was this situation?!

A faint sound came from beside him. Wei Wuxian glanced with the corner of his eye and saw a few blurred figures. Summoning his focus, he discerned that they were several cultivators wearing the Blazing Flame Robe, all advancing on their knees across the floor with a practiced kneeling stride.

Wei Wuxian: ‘...’

All at once, a sense of crushing, blood-chilling oppression closed around him, transmitting itself through Nie Mingjue's four limbs and hundred bones into Wei Wuxian. Nie Mingjue lifted his head a little. Far ahead, at the end of the black-jade floor, was an enormous throne of jade. Upon it sat a person.

The distance was not small, and Nie Mingjue's eyes were still caked with blood and grime; he could not make out the man's true features. Yet, without seeing clearly, he already guessed who it was.

Just then, the great doors of the hall opened, and someone entered.

The followers in the hall were all advancing on their knees. But this man, apart from a slight bow and lowered head upon entering, did not imitate them. He walked calmly straight ahead, crossing the long stretch of jade flooring, and at the end seemed to bend to listen to a few words from the figure on the throne before turning toward this side.

Sauntering slowly closer, he silently regarded Nie Mingjue — still forcing himself to stay upright despite being drenched in blood — for a long moment, appeared to smile, and said: ‘Sect-leader Nie. It has been a long time.’

If this voice were not Meng Yao's, whose voice could it be?