[Time Skip – After the Fight]
Wangji returned to the Jingshi with a heavy heart. No—a heavy body as well. A drop of blood fell from his injured wrist, freshly bandaged by Xichen earlier.
The scrolls were saved. Barely. He didn't care. All he could think was that his ritual had failed.
His golden eyes held no reflection of candlelight as he took a silent breath and descended into the secret room.
As expected, nothing had happened. Nothing bad. Nothing good.
Just Wei Ying's skull, lying there like an object.
He stepped closer and lifted it, studying it as if trying to imagine the flesh and features that once covered it. That smile. Those warm grey eyes that might never return.
His gaze fell on the scrolls and books beside him—the ones used in the ritual. The sentence written there was familiar, yet now felt like mockery:
This ritual cannot be performed again immediately after failure. It requires another half year.
Clear. Direct.
The words settled on his chest like stones.
"Half a year..." he murmured, voice tired, head lowering toward the skull. "Mn."
The syllable that once meant agreement now sounded like a question.
Cruel. He had already waited so long. Now another six months. And perhaps another problem would interfere, another failure waiting. Not overthinking—reality. The world never let anyone keep what they desired.
But he had no choice. He couldn't risk it. Doubt already gnawed at him—doing it wrong, stopping mid-path. What if something went wrong?
"Lan Zhan?"
That voice. Too familiar to ignore. His ears playing tricks again?
"Wei Ying..." He barely breathed the name, looking around, pulse hammering beneath his neck, fingers twitching against the skull.
Nothing. Only the soft rustle of leaves outside.
He closed his eyes, composing himself.
Illusions again. I need to clear my mind.
He began cleaning the mess from earlier.
"Next time," he promised himself, though he couldn't measure how much patience remained.
Especially now that he was sure he'd heard that voice.
Carefully, he placed the bones in a clean bag and stored it on a covered shelf lined with talismans. The skull rested on top, a talisman pressed to its forehead—to ward off any evil spirit.
"Good night, Wei Ying." The words felt unfamiliar, something he'd never done before.
The talisman fluttered faintly, as if answering.
He returned to his room, counting every second until he could try again.
Slowly, he stopped caring if his aching desires would stain his pure white Gusu robes pitch black. He looked at his own robe and thought bitterly of Wei Ying's black one. How often Wei Ying had mentioned such things—his same robe color.
Black and red is more elegant. You showed it.
He went to bed.
A month passed. Waiting. Always waiting. Absorbing every criticism of Wei Ying without release, though Xichen tried.
He stayed hidden in his secret chamber whenever ordered out of his uncle's sight. He had formed a speechless connection with Wei Ying's skull.
When he had to pass through local markets, his path would end with each breath—watching what Wei Ying loved or hated.
One night, like any other, he returned to the Jingshi after a cold bath to clear his mind. Hair still damp, plastered against his white robe like spilled ink. Collar loose—just a little, like the first time he'd tested something he never dared before.
He opened another hidden floor where Emperor's Smile bottles were stored. Took one. Poured two cups.
One for himself.
One for Wei Ying.
At least to show he never forgot.
He drank with dull eyes. Then blinked. Looked at the cup.
Water? Who entered my room?
He stood immediately. If someone had replaced his wine with water, had they discovered the secret chamber? The skull?
His heart spiked with defense. He scanned every corner.
Nothing. No human presence.
Then who?
He sat again. Checked another bottle. Another cup.
Water. All water.
Someone had drunk it all and refilled the bottles. Someone sharp enough to leave no trace.
He couldn't breathe properly. No one in Gusu would enter his room—not even his uncle in anger. And if they had, they'd have punished him for drinking.
His gaze snapped to the bed. The mattress lowered—a kneel's weight. No one there.
But the impression remained.
An evil spirit? Daring to sit beside me?
He grabbed Bichen. The pressure vanished instantly.
But it left a heavy line of tension across his face. First a voice. Now an invisible presence?
Illusions. Nothing more.
Yet he knew he'd seen something.
Too tired to fight, he lay down. Eyes grew heavy. He focused on breathing, slipping into half-sleep. Throat tight. Pupils moving beneath his lids—nightmares chasing.
His shoulders tensed at a familiar sound.
The secret chamber door.
He opened one eye. Sweat rolled from his lid.
"Lan Zhan?"
His breath caught. That voice again. He squeezed his eyes shut. His mind playing tricks—it did this every month.
"Lan Wangji? Hanguang-jun? Lan er-gege~?"
The voice rang in his ears, designed to drive him mad.
He wouldn't give in. A dream. A nightmare.
Then—bones. Cracking with each step.
Real. Too real.
He grabbed Bichen and looked ahead.
And forgot to breathe.
Those bones—the ones he'd collected—now joined. Dry. Standing.
And the skull? Wei Ying's long-dead face, right in front of him.
Forehead to forehead.