Arrogance—Part Three

Once the sky darkened a few shades further, one would need to raise a torch merely to make one's way through the mountain forest. Wei Wuxian walked a while, yet encountered surprisingly few cultivators. He found it rather perplexing: could it be that of the families who had come, one group was still back at Buddha's Foot Town continuing their armchair strategizing and endless disputes, while another, like the lot just now, had thrown up their hands and returned in defeat?

Suddenly, cries for help sounded up ahead.

'Help! Somebody!'

'Save us!'

The voices, male and female both, were full of flustered panic and did not sound feigned. Calls for help in a desolate mountain wilderness were nine times out of ten the work of evil spirits, luring the unsuspecting into a trap. But Wei Wuxian was hugely pleased.

The more wicked the better—he was only afraid it wouldn't be wicked enough!

He urged his donkey toward the source of the sound, looked all around to no avail, then raised his head—and saw, not some yao or demon, but that family of country itinerants he had encountered by the field ridge earlier, suspended from a tree in a vast golden net.

The middle-aged man had been patrolling the woods with his juniors, scouting for tracks. They had not stumbled upon the prey they coveted, but had instead stepped into a net laid by some wealthy party; now they were strung up in the tree, full of bitter complaint. Catching sight of someone approaching, his face lit up with sudden hope—but once he saw it was a madman, his disappointment was instantaneous. Though the cords of this Immortal-Binding Net were fine, the material was first-rate, sturdy beyond breaking. Once caught, be you man, god, yao, demon, spirit, ghost, or monster, you would have to struggle for a good while—unless sliced apart by a superior-grade spiritual weapon. This madman, far from letting them down, most likely did not even know what the thing was.

Just as he was about to try sending him for help, a sound of light, agile steps brushing through branches and over leaves drew near, and a young man in a pale, lightweight robe swept out from the black mountain forest.

At the young master's brow was a dot of cinnabar; his features were so fine as to be almost sharp, and he was very young—about the same age as Lan Sizhui, still but a half-grown youth. On his back were a quiver of arrows and a long sword glittering with golden light; in his hand he carried a longbow. The embroidery on his clothing was exquisite beyond compare, gathered at the chest into a white peony of commanding presence, its gold threads glinting faintly in the night.

Wei Wuxian sighed inwardly: 'Such wealth!'

This had to be some young master of the Lanling Jin clan. Only that clan used the white peony as its family crest, likening themselves to the flower of national beauty, the king among blossoms, quietly proclaiming themselves kings among immortals; they also dotted cinnabar on the forehead, signifying 'opening wisdom, clarifying purpose, the vermilion radiance illuminating the age.'

The young master had been about to draw his bow, but upon seeing that the Immortal-Binding Net had caught people instead, his disappointment swiftly turned to undisguised impatience. 'Every time, it's you fools. Four hundred-odd Immortal-Binding Nets are set in these mountains, and before any prey is caught, you lot have already wrecked over a dozen!'

Wei Wuxian could only think: 'Such wealth!'

A single Immortal-Binding Net already cost a small fortune, yet this young man had laid over four hundred in a single stretch—any lesser family would have to bankrupt itself. No wonder, coming from Lanling Jin. But this indiscriminate catching, deploying Immortal-Binding Nets so recklessly—this was no Night Hunt; plainly it was driving people away, letting no one else have so much as a share. It seemed the cultivators who had retreated earlier had done so not because the prey was too tough, but because the great clan was too dangerous to provoke.

During his leisurely travels over the past few days, coupled with the absorbed eavesdropping just now at Buddha's Foot Town, Wei Wuxian had picked up quite a bit of hearsay about the cultivation world's fluctuations over the years. As the ultimate victor of the great hundred-year clan wars, Lanling Jin now directed and led all the families; even their clan leader was honored with the title Chief Cultivator. The Jin family's temperament had always been proud, partial to luxury and splendor; these years of high-flown superiority and clan ascendancy had only bred within its children an unrestrained arrogance that knew no bounds. Even somewhat inferior families, subjected to every kind of humiliation, could only swallow their resentment in silence—a rustic household like this was a hundred times more unlikely to dare giving offense. And so, though the youth's words were cutting, the people caught in the net reddened with shame but did not dare rebuke him. The middle-aged man, all meekness, said, 'I beg the young master's convenience—please let us down.'

The youth, already fretful that the prey still refused to appear, was just venting his spleen on these bumpkins. He folded his arms and said, 'You just stay hanging there—spare me your blundering about, getting in my way! Once I've caught the Soul-Devouring Beast, I'll let you down if I remember you.'

To hang from a tree for an entire night—if by chance they ran into whatever was roaming Mount Dafan, they'd be utterly helpless and could only suffer the fate of having their souls sucked dry. The round-faced girl who had given Wei Wuxian the apple felt a surge of fear and burst out crying. Wei Wuxian had been sitting cross-legged on Little Apple's back; the donkey, at the sound of that weeping, twitched its long ears and suddenly bolted forward.

It bolted forth with a loud, drawn-out bray. Were it not for the ghastly sound, that unstoppable heroic momentum could have earned it no false praise as some thousand-li steed. Taken utterly off guard, Wei Wuxian was thrown from its back and nearly cracked his head bleeding. Little Apple charged headlong at the youth, as though firmly convinced it could knock him flying with its skull. The youth was still nocking an arrow, just drawing his bow in the donkey's direction; Wei Wuxian, in no hurry to find yet another mount so soon, hauled desperately at the reins. The youth scrutinized him for a couple of glances, then suddenly a look of startled recognition crossed his face, which instantly twisted into scorn. He curled his lip and said, 'So it's you.'

That tone—two parts surprise, eight parts disgust—made Wei Wuxian blink rapidly. The youth went on: 'What, did you go mad after being sent packing back to your hometown? Painted this ghastly color, and they still dare let you out to show your face!'

Had he just heard something rather sensational?!

Could it be—Wei Wuxian slapped his thigh. Could it be that Mo Xuanyu's father was no clan head of some miscellaneous small sect, but the widely notorious Jin Guangshan?!

Jin Guangshan was the previous generation's clan head of Lanling Jin, long since deceased. When it came to this man, words could hardly capture him. He had a formidable wife of illustrious pedigree, and his reputation for henpeckery was widely known; yet for all his fear, he never failed to chase after women. Even the most capable Madam Jin could not shadow him twelve shichen a day, so from renowned beauties of noble families to country prostitutes, he let slip no catch he could devour. What was more, though he loved tearing at blossoms and trampling grasses, philandering everywhere, siring a host of illegitimate children, he tired extremely quickly of the new and loathed the old, casting a woman entirely aside from his mind once he'd grown weary of her—utterly without a shred of responsibility. Among his multitude of illegitimate children, only one proved exceptionally outstanding and was acknowledged and taken back: the present clan head of Lanling Jin, Jin Guangyao. Moreover, even Jin Guangshan's death was inglorious: confident in his vigorous old age, he resolved to challenge himself and caroused with a group of women, only to die lamentably of a stroke in the saddle. This was far too mortifying to disclose, so Lanling Jin declared to the world that the old clan head had succumbed to overwork, and all the families tacitly accepted this, pretending ignorance. In short, this was the true cause of his 'wide notoriety.'

Back in the Siege of the Burial Mounds, after Jiang Cheng, the second greatest contributor had been Jin Guangshan. Now that Wei Wuxian had taken possession of his illegitimate son's body, he truly had no idea how this debt should be settled.

The youth, seeing him in a daze and thoroughly irritated, said: 'Get lost, quick! Just seeing you nauseates me enough. Damned cut-sleeve.'

Figuring the generational seniority, Mo Xuanyu might even be an uncle or elder of this youth's—to suffer such insult from a junior! Wei Wuxian felt that, if not for himself, then for Mo Xuanyu's body he must insult him right back, and said: 'Some mother bore you, but no one ever raised you.'

At that, a flash of violent rage blazed and died in the youth's eyes. He drew the long sword from his back and said, with chilling menace: 'What did you—just say?'

The blade erupted in dazzling gold light; it was a rare, top-grade sword that many families, toiling a lifetime, could scarcely hope to lay a finger upon. Wei Wuxian studied it with riveted attention and felt the blade was somewhat familiar, but he had seen his share of top-grade swords with golden auras and did not dwell on the thought. Instead, he rotated a small cloth pouch in his hand.

This was a Spirit-Binding Pouch he had cobbled together hastily with a few scraps just the other day. As the youth brought his sword cleaving down, Wei Wuxian took from the pouch a small piece of paper cut into a human shape, sidestepped the blow, and turning his hand, slapped it with a 'pa' upon the other's back.

The youth's movements were already fast, but Wei Wuxian had done his share of tripping feet and slapping talismans onto backs, his hands and feet faster still. The youth felt a numbing prick at his heart's center, a weight sinking upon his back, and his whole body pitched involuntarily to the ground; his sword clattered aside, and however he struggled, he could not rise—as if Mount Tai itself pressed down upon him. Clinging to his back was a greedy, starved-to-death yin spirit, crushing him so he could scarcely breathe. Though small, the ghost had no trouble with an unripe brat like this. Wei Wuxian picked up the boy's sword, tested its weight, and with one sweep severed the Immortal-Binding Net above them.

The family tumbled to the ground in disarray, not a word spoken, and fled in frantic haste. The round-faced girl seemed to want to offer thanks, but was yanked away by her elder, terrified that even a few more words would earn them deeper enmity from Young Master Jin. The youth on the ground raged, 'Damned cut-sleeve! Fine, so your Spiritual Power is too low to cultivate properly, and you walk this crooked path—just you wait! Do you know who came today?! Today I—'

Wei Wuxian, with utterly insincere theatrics, clutched his heart and cried: 'Ah! I'm so scared!'

His old set of cultivation methods, though condemned by others and harmful in the long run to the practitioner's vital foundations, brought rapid success and was not restricted by Spiritual Power or natural talent, making it maddeningly tempting. Those lured by shortcuts and secretly cultivating it had never been in short supply; the youth thus assumed that Mo Xuanyu, after being driven from Lanling Jin, had strayed onto the crooked path. This perfectly reasonable suspicion also saved Wei Wuxian no small amount of unnecessary trouble.

The youth braced his hands on the ground, tried several times without managing to climb up, his face crimson, gritting his teeth: 'If you don't remove this now, I'll tell my uncle—just wait till you're dead!'

Wei Wuxian asked, mystified: 'Why your uncle and not your father? Which uncle of yours?'

Suddenly, from behind him, a voice resounded—three parts cold severity, seven parts icy menace:

'His uncle is me. Do you have any last words?'

The instant that voice struck his ears, all the blood in Wei Wuxian's body seemed to rush to his head, then drained away utterly. Fortunately his face had already been a ghastly white; a shade paler raised no suspicion.

A young man in purple strode forward with casual ease, arrow-sleeved and lightly robed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, a silver bell suspended at his waist that made no sound as he walked.

The young man had slender brows and almond-shaped eyes; his face was a sharp, striking handsomeness, his gaze deep and fiery with a hint of aggression, looking at others like two cold lightning bolts. He halted and stood still ten paces from Wei Wuxian, his expression like an arrow drawn on a bowstring, poised to strike, even his bearing exuding a kind of arrogant self-regard.

He frowned and said: 'Jin Ling, how is it taking you so long—do I need to come and summon you back myself? Got yourself into this sorry state, and you still won't get up!'

After that first wave of numbness passed from his mind, Wei Wuxian swiftly recovered his spirit and crooked his fingers within his sleeve, withdrawing that paper figure. Feeling the weight lift from his back, Jin Ling instantly scrambled to snatch up his sword and spring to his feet, darting to Jiang Cheng's side. Pointing at Wei Wuxian, he cursed: 'I'm going to break your legs!'

Standing together, uncle and nephew bore a two- or three-part resemblance in their brows and eyes, looking more like a pair of brothers. Jiang Cheng flexed his fingers, and the paper figure suddenly slipped from Wei Wuxian's grasp and flew into his hand. He glanced at it; a spasm of malice rose in his eyes. Exerting force between his fingers, flames burst from the paper and, amid the shrill shrieking of the yin spirit, burned it to ash.

With grim severity Jiang Cheng said, 'Break his legs? Didn't I tell you—when you meet a Crooked Demonic Path like this, kill him straightaway and feed him to your dogs!'

Wei Wuxian didn't even spare a thought for the donkey, retreating in a flying leap. He had assumed that after all these years, no matter how immense Jiang Cheng's hatred for him, it would have scattered like smoke. Who could have known it would be so cheap—far from scattering, it had only thickened like aged wine, growing stronger with time, and now had extended to anyone who emulated his cultivation methods!

With someone guarding his rear, Jin Ling's swordplay this time turned even more ferocious. Wei Wuxian slipped two fingers into the Spirit-Binding Pouch, about to move. A beam of blue sword-light flashed out like lightning, clashing with Jin Ling's blade, and instantly scattered the golden radiance of that top-grade immortal sword.

The difference lay not in the quality of the blades, but in the sheer disparity of skill between their wielders. Wei Wuxian, who had been precisely calculating the timing, never expected this sword-light to disrupt his footwork. He staggered, pitched forward to the ground—directly in front of a pair of snow-white boots. He froze for a long moment, then slowly raised his head.

The first thing that met his eyes was a long, slender blade, crystalline and translucent as frozen ice.

Among the hundred clans, this sword was exceedingly renowned. Wei Wuxian had tasted its power countless times, whether fighting side by side or crossing swords in opposition. The hilt was forged of pure silver refined by arcane methods; the blade was exceedingly thin, so clear and transparent it emitted a cold, icy air, yet cut through iron as though through mud. Thus the entire sword seemed light and ethereal, as if imbued with an immortal grace, but was in truth immensely weighty; an ordinary person could not even swing it.

—'Bichen.'

The blade reversed, and above Wei Wuxian's head came the ringing, metallic sound of a sword sliding home. At that same moment, Jiang Cheng's voice reached them from a distance: 'And here I was wondering who it might be. So it's the Second Young Master Lan.'

The white boots stepped around Wei Wuxian, unhurried and composed, moving three paces forward. Wei Wuxian lifted his head and rose. As they brushed past one another, his eyes met the other's, as though inadvertently, for a fleeting moment.

The newcomer was draped in a body of moonlight like white silk, bearing a Seven-Stringed Guqin upon his back. The instrument was narrower than an ordinary guqin, its entire body a deep black, the wood grain soft and gentle.

The man wore a cloud-patterned forehead ribbon. His skin was fair, his beauty of the utmost elegance, like carved and polished jade. The color of his eyes was unusually light, almost like glass, lending his gaze an air of excessive indifference. His expression held the chill of frost and snow, a severe and nearly rigid solemnity, and even the sight of Wei Wuxian's current laughable face stirred not the faintest ripple.

From head to toe, not a speck of dust, not the slightest irregularity, not a single detail out of place—even so, four great characters burst up in Wei Wuxian's mind:

'Dressed in mourning white!'

Truly, truly, dressed in mourning white. Let everyone else rhapsodize about how gloriously exquisite the Gusu Lan uniform was, rated as the most aesthetically pleasing by common consensus; let them praise Lan Wangji as the unequaled, once-in-a-century beauty—none of it could withstand that face of his, which looked for all the world as though his wife had just died, steeped in bitter grief and deep-seated rancor.

Unlucky times, and narrow paths for foes. Blessings never come in pairs, calamities never walk alone.

Lan Wangji, silent and unspeaking, eyes fixed straight ahead, stood quietly opposite Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng was already an outstanding, striking beauty, yet standing face to face with him, he seemed somewhat diminished, somewhat more restless. One eyebrow raised, he said, 'Hanguang-Jun truly lives up to the fine reputation of appearing wherever there is chaos. How is it you have the leisure today to come into these deep mountains and old forests?'

Clan leaders of their standing generally disdained to trouble themselves with evil beings of too low a grade; Lan Wangji, however, was an exception. He never picked and chose among Night Hunt targets, nor would he decline because some demon or monster was insufficiently ferocious and offered little renown for the killing. Whenever anyone sought help, he would go—so it had been since his youth. Thus, 'appearing wherever there is chaos' was the world's assessment of Hanguang-Jun's Night Hunt activities, and praise for his character. The tone Jiang Cheng used now was none too cordial. The group of juniors who had followed Lan Wangji up heard it and felt extremely uncomfortable; Lan Jingyi, frank and quick-tongued, burst out: 'But isn't Clan Leader Jiang here himself?'

Jiang Cheng replied coldly, 'Tch. When elders are speaking, are you fit to interject? Gusu Lan prides itself on being a household of propriety among the cultivation clans—so this is how it teaches its disciples.'

Lan Wangji seemed unwilling to engage with him. He glanced at Lan Sizhui, who understood: let juniors speak to juniors. Lan Sizhui stepped forward and addressed Jin Ling: 'Young Master Jin, the Night Hunt has always been a fair competition among the families. Yet Young Master Jin has strewn nets all across Mount Dafan, making every step a trial for cultivators of other clans, who must constantly fear falling into a trap. Is that not a violation of the Night Hunt’s rules?'

Jin Ling’s icy manner was stamped from the same mold as his uncle’s: 'Their own stupidity got them caught in my traps—what am I supposed to do about that? Anything else can wait until I’ve caught my prey.'

Lan Wangji’s brow furrowed. Jin Ling was about to speak further when he suddenly found he could not open his mouth, could utter no sound from his throat. His face filled with shock and dismay. Jiang Cheng took a look: Jin Ling’s upper and lower lips seemed glued together beyond parting. A flicker of suppressed anger crossed his face, and he abandoned even his grudging courtesies: 'Lan! What is the meaning of this? Jin Ling is not yours to discipline—release the spell at once!'

This Silencing Spell was one the Lan family used to punish its own erring disciples. Wei Wuxian had suffered from this little trick more than a few times. Though not a complex or profound spell, no non-Lan cultivator knew the counter. If the silenced person forcibly attempted to speak, either their lips would tear and bleed, or their throat would be rendered hoarse for days; they must shut their mouth and quietly reflect until the punishment’s duration lapsed. Lan Sizhui said, 'Clan Leader Jiang, there is no need for anger. As long as he does not forcefully break the spell, it will lift on its own after the time it takes to burn a stick of incense.'

Before Jiang Cheng could reply, a man in the purple robes of the Jiang clan came running from the woods, crying, 'Clan Leader!' Upon seeing Lan Wangji standing there, his face showed hesitation. Jiang Cheng said mockingly, 'Go on—what further bad news have you come to report to me?'

The retainer said in a low voice, 'Not long ago, a blue flying sword destroyed the Immortal-Binding Nets you had set up.'

Jiang Cheng shot a sideways glare at Lan Wangji, his displeasure writ plainly on his face. 'How many destroyed?'

The retainer answered with utmost caution, '...All of them...'

Over four hundred!

Jiang Cheng seethed in towering fury.

Truly unexpected—such rotten luck on this excursion. Originally he had come to back Jin Ling’s debut: this year, turning fifteen, Jin Ling had reached the age to begin making a name and competing in seniority with the younger generation of other families. Jiang Cheng had carefully selected the hunting grounds of Mount Dafan for him, strewing nets everywhere and intimidating the cultivators of other clans to render them paralyzed and force their retreat—all so Jin Ling could seize the first laurels with no one to snatch them away. Four hundred-odd Immortal-Binding Nets, though near astronomical in cost, meant little to the Yunmeng Jiang Clan. Yet the destruction of the nets was a small matter; the loss of face was monumental. With Lan Wangji acting in such a manner, Jiang Cheng felt a foul rage swirling in his chest, mounting higher and higher. He narrowed his eyes, his left hand moving as if unconsciously to stroke the ring on the index finger of his right.

This was a perilous gesture.

Everyone knew that ring was a fearsome, lethal treasure. Once the head of the Jiang clan began to touch it, killing intent was upon him.