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Chapter Text

The morning after was too bright.

The sunlight filtered through the paper screens of the inn in a way that felt like an intrusion. Wei Wuxian lay perfectly still, his breath hitching in the back of his throat. He didn't need to turn his head to know who was lying next to him. The scent of sandalwood was everywhere. It was in the sheets, in his own hair, and etched into the very pores of his skin.

Beside him, Lan Wangji was a statue of marble and moonlight. Even in sleep, the Second Jade of Lan looked untouchable, his features composed in a mask of serenity that made the events of the previous night feel like a fever dream.

But it wasn't a dream. Wei Wuxian’s body ached in places he didn't want to name, and his mind was a chaotic swirl of memories. The heat of Lan Zhan’s hands, the rare, broken sound of his name being whispered in the dark, and the terrifying realization that for a few hours, the Yiling Patriarch and Hanguang-jun had been one entity.

“Run,” a voice in his head whispered. “If he wakes up and sees what he’s done—what you’ve allowed him to do—he’ll never forgive himself. He’ll look at you with that crushing weight of duty, and you’ll die from the guilt of it.”

Wei Wuxian didn't leave a note. He didn't have the words. He gathered his black robes, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with the belt as he vanished into the morning mist of Caiyi Town before the first bell of the Cloud Recesses could chime.

The return to the Burial Mounds was a blur of exhaustion. Wei Wuxian threw himself into work with a manic energy that worried even the most oblivious of the Wen remnants. He spent days painting talismans until his fingers were stained black with ink, and nights pacing the perimeter of the blood pool with Chenqing pressed to his lips.

He told himself the nausea was just a result of the poor food. He told himself that the sudden, overwhelming sensitivity to smells and the way the scent of woodsmoke made his stomach churn was just a lingering effect of the resentful energy.

But then came the morning he couldn't get up.

He was curled on the cold stone floor of the Demon Slaughter Cave with his head resting on his arm. Every time he tried to rise, the world tilted on its axis.

“Wei Wuxian? If you’re playing dead to get out of helping with the potatoes, it’s not working,” Wen Qing’s voice echoed at the entrance.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. He just groaned while pressing his face harder into the stone.

Wen Qing was at his side in a heartbeat. Her hand was cool against his neck while her brow furrowed in concentration. “You’re not feverish. But your spiritual energy is... it’s erratic. Wei Wuxian, look at me.”

He rolled over, his face pale and drawn. “I’m fine. Just... a bit of a late night.”

She didn't believe him. She grabbed his wrist, her fingers searching for his pulse. Wei Wuxian watched her face, expecting her to scold him for neglecting his health. Instead, he watched the color drain from her cheeks. She dropped his hand as if he had bitten her.

“Wei Wuxian,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “When was the last time you were with someone?”

The silence that followed was heavy. Wei Wuxian tried to summon a joke, a teasing remark about her being nosy, but the words died in his throat. He looked at the ceiling of the cave and at the jagged stalactites that looked like teeth.

“It was an accident,” he said, his voice barely audible. “One night. It won't happen again.”

“It doesn't need to happen again,” Wen Qing hissed, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and pity. “You don’t have a golden core to protect you, you idiot! Your body has no way to filter the spiritual strain of... of this.”

“Of what?” Wei Wuxian asked, though he already knew.

“There is a life in you,” she said, the words falling like stones into a well.

“A life with a spiritual signature so strong it’s already trying to draw from your meridians. If you don't find the father to get spiritual support, this child will drain you until there’s nothing left.”

Wei Wuxian sat up, the movement making his head spin. He grabbed Wen Qing’s sleeve. “No. No one finds out.”

“The father has a right to know!”

“He has a right to his honor!” Wei Wuxian shouted, his voice echoing off the cave walls.

Wen Qing looked at him for a long time. She saw the desperation in his eyes and the fierce, protective light that was already beginning to burn.

“You're a fool,” she said softly. “A complete and utter fool.”

The Burial Mounds were never meant for life. They were a graveyard of resentful energy, a place where the wind whistled like a mourning flute and the soil tasted of copper and old grudges. Without a golden core, the pregnancy was a physical torment. Every day was a cycle of bone-deep fatigue and a hunger that could never be satisfied by the meager rations of the Wens.

“Xian-gege!"

The high-pitched shout of A-Yuan broke his reverie. The toddler came scrambling over the uneven dirt, his short legs moving with a chaotic energy that always made Wei Wuxian’s heart ache. 

A-Yuan skidded to a halt and immediately tried to climb Wei Wuxian’s leg.

“Up! Up, Xian-gege!”

Normally, Wei Wuxian would have scooped him up, tossed him into the air, and listened to that melodic, bubbling laughter. But today, the mere thought of lifting the boy made his vision swim.

“A-Yuan, be careful,” Wei Wuxian said, leaning down to pat the boy’s head instead. “Gege is... Gege is a little bit lazy today. Why don't we sit on the grass and look for bugs?”

A-Yuan pouted, a look so devastatingly cute it should have been illegal. “Xian-gege is always tired lately. Are you sick? Granny says you need more soup.”

“Granny thinks everyone needs more soup," Wei Wuxian joked, though his stomach did a nervous flip at the mention of food. “I'm not sick, A-Yuan. I'm just... growing something.”

A-Yuan’s eyes went wide. “A radish? Are you growing a radish in your belly? Will it be big?”

Wei Wuxian let out a genuine laugh, the first one in days. “The biggest radish you’ve ever seen. A very, very stubborn radish with a very high forehead.”

By the eighth month, Wei Wuxian could no longer walk to the radish patches. He spent his days in the cave, the air thick with the smell of the protective arrays he had drawn on the walls. He was terrified. Not of the pain, but of the child.

“You'll have to be quiet,” he told his stomach as he sat by a small fire. “You have to be a very good boy. No shouting. No causing trouble. We have to be invisible, you and I.”

The baby responded with a kick so hard it made him gasp.

“Alright, alright. A little bit of trouble is okay. But only a little.”

A sharp, sudden pressure bloomed in his lower back, radiating toward his hips. Wei Wuxian hissed, his hand instinctively flying to support the underside of his belly. 

“You're as stubborn as your father,” Wei Wuxian muttered, his voice softening. “Always insisting on being felt even when you aren't saying a word.”

He stood up slowly, his knees cracking. The simple act of rising required a centered gravity he hadn't yet mastered. He had to move with a deliberate, rolling gait that felt entirely alien to the former head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang. He missed the lightness of Suibian. He missed the way he could leap onto a rooftop without a second thought. Now, even walking to the Lotus pond he’d attempted to cultivate felt like a marathon.

As he limped toward the settlement, he saw Granny Wen hanging up some threadbare laundry. She looked up, her eyes immediately darting to his face, then his stance.

“Wei Wuxian,” she called out, her voice laced with the kind of sharp maternal instinct that Wei Wuxian couldn't hide from. “You should be lying down. The wind is turning cold.”

“I'm fine, Granny,” he lied, offering a pale imitation of his usual grin. “Just getting some air. The cave gets a bit... stuffy.”

“You're pale,” she countered, walking over with a basin tucked under one arm. She reached out, her calloused hand hovering near his arm. “The color has drained from your lips. Uncle Wen has already prepared the broth, and Wen Qing is sharpening her needles.”

“I just need to sit,” Wei Wuxian conceded, the pressure in his abdomen tightening into a dull, rhythmic throb. “Just for a moment.”

He allowed Granny to lead him to a small wooden bench. As he sat, a cold bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

He felt the first real contraction ripple through his muscles—a tight, clenching sensation that made his breath hitch.

It wasn't the pain that scared him. He had survived the Burial Mounds. He had survived the removal of his golden core. It was the realization that he was no longer alone in his body. The secret was about to become a person.

“Granny,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Go get Wen Qing. I think... I think the guest is arriving early.”

He leaned his head back against the rough stone wall and closed his eyes. The darkness behind his eyelids flickered with memories he usually tried to suppress. He thought of the Cloud Recesses—the scent of sandalwood, the sound of the zither, and the way Lan Wangji’s ears would turn pink when Wei Wuxian teased him too relentlessly.

He wondered if the magnolias were in bloom there now. He wondered if Lan Wangji ever looked at the empty seat next to him and felt a flicker of... something.

A sharper, more insistent cramp tore through his reverie. It wasn't a dull ache anymore—it was a focused, squeezing pressure that seemed to wrap around his spine.

“Ah... damn it,” he gasped, clutching the edges of the stone bench. He forced himself to breathe—shallow, quick breaths that did little to calm the racing of his heart.

The sound of hurried footsteps echoed. Wen Qing appeared, her medical bag slung over her shoulder, her expression a mask of clinical focus that didn't quite hide the worry in her eyes. Behind her, Wen Ning followed, carrying a basin of steaming water and a stack of clean linens.

“I told you three days ago to stop wandering around,” Wen Qing scolded, though her hands were gentle as she reached out to check his pulse. Her fingers, cold and steady, pressed against his wrist. “Your pulse is jumping like a trapped rabbit, Wei Wuxian.”

"I was just... checking the lotus," he wheezed, trying to force a laugh that died in his throat as another contraction took hold. He doubled over, his forehead resting against his knees.

“Forget the lotuses,” she snapped, though she signaled for Wen Ning to help him up. “Let’s get you to the bed. Wen Ning, keep the water hot. Granny is bringing more cloths. And for the love of the gods, Wei Wuxian, stop trying to be brave. If it hurts, scream. The ghosts already hate us; a bit of shouting won't make a difference.”

The transition from the cool, damp air of the settlement to the suffocating stillness of the Demon Slaughtering Cave felt like crossing a boundary between worlds. 

They moved him to the makeshift bed at the back of the cave—a simple platform covered in thick furs and clean sheets. The cave, usually a place of dark invention and messy talismans, had been transformed into a sanitized sanctuary. Wen Qing had spent weeks scrubbing the stone and burning purifying incense to keep the resentful energy at bay.

As Wei Wuxian lay back, the weight of his belly felt immense, an anchor pulling him down into the bed. The flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows on the ceiling.

“Wen Qing,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly as the room settled into a tense silence. “What if... what if he looks like me?”

Wen Qing paused, her hands hovering over her array of needles and herbs. She looked at him, her gaze softening for a fraction of a second. “Then he will be a handsome, troublesome boy who will likely give me a headache for the next twenty years.”

He tried to use his internal energy to manage the pain, but without a golden core, his reserves were shallow. He had to rely on sheer mental grit. Every time the pressure built, he imagined he was back in the cold springs of Gusu, trying to find that center of stillness that Lan Wangji always seemed to possess.

As the hours bled into each other, the carefully maintained order within the Demon Slaughtering Cave began to fray. The initial slow rhythm of contractions gave way to a relentless assault. Wei Wuxian's breaths grew ragged, punctuated by involuntary groans that echoed off the damp stone walls. 

“Keep breathing, Wei Wuxian,” she instructed, her voice calm amidst the growing storm. 

“Wei Wuxian, if you don't stop squeezing my hand, I won't be able to use my needles!” Wen Qing shouted over a crack of thunder.

Wei Wuxian didn't hear her. His world had narrowed down to the sensation of being torn apart from the inside out. He was drenched in sweat, his black inner robes clinging to his skin, and his hair—usually a wild, playful mane—was matted against the stone.

“I changed my mind!” Wei Wuxian gasped, his eyes unfocused. “I don't want to do this! Wen Qing, put it back! Tell the baby to come back in a few years!”

“It doesn't work like that, you idiot!” Wen Qing barked. She was genuinely worried. She had been treating Wei Wuxian for months for exhaustion, but even she hadn't realized the sheer power of the life force he was carrying. 

With a final, soul-cleaving effort that felt like his spirit was being wrung out like a wet cloth, the pressure suddenly vanished.

The cave fell into a silence so profound it felt heavy.

Wei Wuxian slumped back, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He waited. He waited for the sound that every parent expects—the high, thin wail of a child meeting the cold world for the first time.

Nothing.

"Is he..." Wei Wuxian’s voice was a broken rasp. “Wen Qing? Why isn't he... why is it so quiet?”

Wen Qing was motionless. She was staring at the infant while her hands suspended in mid-air and a streak of blood drying on her cheek. Her mouth hanging open while her eyes wide with a shock that bordered on terror

As she lifted the infant, a heavy, oppressive silence fell over the cave. It wasn't the silence of death, but the silence of judgment. Wen Qing froze, her eyes widening until they looked like they might fall out of her head.

“Wei Wuxian,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “What did you do?  Who did you say the father was?”

“I told you, it was a random traveler! A rogue cultivator! Give me my son!” Wei Wuxian snapped, his maternal instincts flaring through his exhaustion. 

Wen Qing stepped forward and lowered the bundle into Wei Wuxian’s shaking arms.

Wei Wuxian looked down, ready to see a tiny, red-faced version of himself. He expected his own messy nose, his own mischievous mouth, and perhaps a hint of the Wen features from the environment.

He saw none of those things.

The infant was not crying because, apparently, crying was beneath his dignity.

The baby was tiny. His skin is a pale, porcelain white that seemed to glow against the dark linen. It is like a polished mutton-fat jade. But it wasn't the size that stole Wei Wuxian’s breath. It was the face.

The infant was wrapped in a rough linen cloth, but no amount of burlap could hide the pedigree. The baby’s face was not the soft, squishy visage of a typical newborn. He had a high, elegant brow, a perfectly straight nose, and a tiny rosebud mouth that was currently pulled into a familiar thin line of profound disapproval that Wei Wuxian felt like he should apologize for his messy hair.

The baby shifted. He didn't flail his arms but he tucked them neatly against his chest in a gesture of extreme poise. He tilted his head back, looked at the damp grimy walls of the Demon Slaughter Cave, and let out a soft, sharp nasal sound.

“Hmph.”

It was the exact, low-vibrating sound of annoyance Lan Wangji made when Wei Wuxian suggested they drink wine during a study session. It was the sound of a Gusu Lan who had found the entire process of being born to be a massive breach of sect rules.

“Oh, gods,” Wei Wuxian choked out, his heart dropping into his stomach. “He has the face. He has the attitude.”

“A rogue cultivator?” Wen Qing asked, her voice flat. “A random traveler? Wei Wuxian, that child looks more like Lan Wangji than Lan Wangji looks like himself.”

“It's a coincidence!” Wei Wuxian shrieked, clutching the baby to his chest. “Babies have common faces! He'll grow out of it! He'll get my nose, you'll see!”

“That is the face of a man who hasn't smiled since the dawn of time,” Wen Qing continued, her shock giving way to a frantic, hysterical edge. “If you put a white ribbon on that child’s head right now, he would look like he was about to lecture us on the 3,000 rules of the Cloud Recesses.”

“I know!” Wei Wuxian wailed softly, pulling the baby closer.

Then, the infant decided he wasn't finished with his assessment.

Slowly and deliberately, he opened his eyes.

They weren't the dark playful eyes of the Yiling Laozu. They were two pools of molten judgmental gold. They stared up at Wei Wuxian with a terrifyingly lucid intensity, as if the infant were already tallying up his father’s many moral failings. They were so unmistakably Lan Wangji that Wei Wuxian felt his soul shrivel under the weight of the gaze.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian whispered, his voice cracking. “He gave me a tiny Lan Zhan.”

The baby looked at Wei Wuxian’s messy robes, looked at the blood on the floor, and then looked back at his father’s eyes. He let out another louder “Hmph,” and then pointedly closed his eyes and turned his head away, as if the very sight of the Yiling Patriarch was a disappointment he couldn't yet vocalize.

“He's judging me,” Wei Wuxian whispered, a mix of horror and a strange, agonizing love swelling in his chest. “He’s ten minutes old and he’s already judging my life choices.”

“He has every right to!” Wen Qing hissed, though she was already moving to check the baby’s vitals.

“Wei Wuxian, look at him. You can't hide this. You could claim he’s a nephew, a cousin, a ghost-child... but no one with eyes will believe you. He’s a carbon copy. He’s a tiny, grumpy Hanguang-jun.”

Wei Wuxian looked at the baby—the tiny, perfect, scowling miracle in his arms—and then he looked toward the entrance of the cave where the morning light was just beginning to break through the mist.

“I was so sure,” Wei Wuxian murmured, his fingers tracing the baby’s tiny, dignified nose. “I was so sure I could do this alone. But how do I explain a child who looks like he’s about to hand me a punishment scroll for being born in a graveyard?”

The timing of the universe had always been Wei Wuxian’s greatest enemy.

He was still holding the baby, still reeling from the shock of the “Hmph,” when the wards at the base of the Burial Mounds flared.

Wen Ning burst into the cave, his eyes wide. “Young Master Wei! Someone... someone is here! He broke through the first three layers of the resentful mist!”

Wei Wuxian panicked. He tried to sit up, but his body screamed in protest. “Who? Is it the Jin’s?”

“No,” Wen Ning said, his voice trembling. “It’s... it’s the white robes. It’s Hanguang-jun.”

The silence that fell over the cave was heavy enough to crush bone. Wei Wuxian looked down at the infant in his arms. The baby looked back, his golden eyes steady and unblinking, as if to say: ‘He’s here. Fix your hair.’

“Hide him,” Wei Wuxian scrambled, trying to shove the baby toward Wen Qing. “Wen Qing, take him! Hide him in the back. Don't let him see! If Lan Zhan sees this face, I’m dead! He’ll think I stole his DNA! He'll think I did it on purpose!”

“Wei Wuxian, I can't hide a baby that radiates spiritual energy like a beacon!” Wen Qing hissed, even as she reached for the child.

But it was too late.

The sound of boots on stone echoed through the tunnel. The air in the cave suddenly filled with the scent of sandalwood and cold spring water, cutting through the musk of the Burial Mounds.

A figure stepped into the light of the flickering candles.

Lan Wangji stood in the entrance of the Demon Slaughter Cave. His white robes were immaculate despite the mud of the mountain. His Bichen was gripped tightly in his hand, and his expression was a mask of cold, controlled concern.

He stopped dead.

His eyes traveled from the blood on the floor to the exhausted pale form of Wei Wuxian on the bed. And then slowly, his gaze dropped to the bundle in Wen Qing’s arms.

The baby, sensing a familiar frequency, turned his tiny head. He looked at the man in the doorway. The man in the doorway looked at him. It was like looking into a mirror across twenty years of time.

The baby let out another soft, indignant, “Hmph.”

Lan Wangji’s grip on Bichen loosened. The legendary sword clattered to the stone floor, the sound ringing out like a death knell for Wei Wuxian’s secrets.

The sound of Bichen hitting the stone floor was deafening. In all the years Wei Wuxian had known Lan Wangji—through the lectures at Gusu, the depths of the Cold Pond, and the blood-soaked fields of the Sunshot Campaign—he had never seen the man drop his sword.

Lan Wangji stood frozen. The air around him, usually so pressurized with spiritual intent, seemed to have vanished, leaving him breathless. His gaze was locked on the bundle in Wen Qing’s arms.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian croaked. He tried to summon his usual wit, a playful deflection to bridge the terrifying gap between them.

“You’re... you’re late. The party’s over. And you dropped your sword! That’s a violation of at least three rules, isn't it?”

Lan Wangji didn't blink. He didn't even look at Wei Wuxian. He took one step forward, then another, his movements mechanical, like a puppet with frayed strings.

Wen Qing, usually the most formidable woman in any room, actually took a half-step back. She wasn't afraid of Lan Wangji’s anger, she was terrified of his shattering.

The baby, however, was entirely unimpressed by the Arrival of the Peerless Hanguang-jun. He shifted in his linen swaddle, his tiny perfectly sculpted face tightening. He looked at the man who shared his nose, his brow, and his very soul, and he let out a sharp, piercing cry.

It wasn't a cry of hunger or pain. It was a cry of demand.

“He wants his father,” Wen Qing whispered, her voice trembling.

Wei Wuxian felt his heart shatter. “I'm right here!” he squeaked, reaching out with a weak hand. “I'm his father! I did all the work!”

But the infant’s golden eyes stayed fixed on the white-clad figure. Lan Wangji reached out with trembling fingers—a sight Wei Wuxian thought was physically impossible—and touched the baby’s cheek. The skin was identical. The pallor was identical.

The baby immediately stopped crying. He grabbed Lan Wangji’s pinky finger with a tiny, surprisingly strong grip and let out a contented muffled. 

Lan Wangji’s knees finally gave out. He sank to the floor in a heap of white silk, his hand still anchored by the infant’s grasp.

“Wei Ying,” he whispered. 

“Get out,” Wen Qing said suddenly, addressing Wen Ning. “Let’s get out. Now.”

She didn't wait for him to move. She practically shoved him toward the exit. She paused only to look at Wei Wuxian with a mixture of pity and ‘I-told-you-so’ before placing the baby back into Wei Wuxian’s arms—though the child refused to let go of Lan Wangji’s finger, forcing the Hanguang-jun to shuffle closer to the bed.

The cave was silent save for the crackling of a dying fire.

Wei Wuxian looked down at his son. The baby had one hand clutched to Wei Wuxian’s black robes and one hand locked around Lan Wangji’s finger. He was a bridge between them, a living piece of evidence that neither of them could deny.

“I can explain,” Wei Wuxian said, his voice cracking.

Lan Wangji finally looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, his usual stoicism replaced by a raw, bleeding vulnerability. “Explain?”

“It was... the wine?” Wei Wuxian tried, his voice rising in a nervous pitch. “You know how it is. Emperor’s Smile is very potent. And the Burial Mounds... they have very strange energy. Maybe the resentment just... shaped him this way? Like a very specific, very handsome curse?”

“Wei Ying.”

The way Lan Wangji said his name—full of a decade’s worth of repressed longing and current agony—shut Wei Wuxian up instantly.

“He is mine,” Lan Wangji said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact that vibrated in the very air.

“The night at the inn. You ghosted me,” Lan Wangji whispered, his voice low and dangerous. “I went back to that inn the next day. I went back every week for a month. I sent letters to the outposts. You vanished.”

“I had to!” Wei Wuxian sobbed, the exhaustion finally winning. “Look at where I live! Look at who I am! You’re the light of the cultivation world, Lan Zhan. You’re the Jade. I’m the dirt. What was I supposed to do? Walk into the Cloud Recesses with a belly and say, ‘Hey, look what Hanguang-jun did while he was drunk’?”

As the parents argued, the baby did something remarkable.

He didn't cry at the shouting. Instead, he scowled. He looked from his father in black to his father in white, and his little face twisted into an expression of such profound, regal impatience that both men stopped mid-sentence.

The baby let out a long, weary sigh.

“He's judging us,” Wei Wuxian whispered, wiping his eyes. “He’s ten minutes old and he’s already checking the Gusu Lan wall of rules to see which one we’re breaking.”

“Rule 24,” Lan Wangji murmured, his eyes softening as he looked at the child. “Do not argue in the presence of the young.”

Wei Wuxian let out a wet laugh. “He really is you, isn’t he? I spent nine months hoping he’d at least have my personality, but he’s already the most disciplined person in this cave.”

Lan Wangji reached out, and this time, his hand didn't shake. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind Wei Wuxian’s ear, his touch lingering. “He has your spirit,” Lan Wangji said softly. “I can feel it. It’s... bright like a flame.”

The baby settled back into sleep, his tiny face smoothing out, though he kept his firm grip on Lan Wangji’s finger. For the first time in months, the heavy, suffocating weight of the Burial Mounds felt lighter.

“What now?” Wei Wuxian asked, his voice small. “You can't take him back, Lan Zhan. The Elders would... they’d kill me. He’s a son of the Yiling Laozu. That’s a death sentence.”

Lan Wangji’s expression hardened into something formidable. He picked up Bichen from the floor and stood up, though he didn't pull his finger away from the baby’s grasp.

“No one,” Lan Wangji said, his voice like iron, “will touch him. Or you.”

“Lan Zhan—”

“I am not leaving,” Lan Wangji declared. “The Gusu Lan may have three thousand rules, but they have none for this. If the world will not give you a home, I will build one here.”

Wei Wuxian looked at the man he had tried to avoid, the man he had ghosted out of a desperate misplaced love, and then he looked at the tiny frowning carbon copy in his arms.

“He really is going to be a disaster,” Wei Wuxian sighed, leaning his head against Lan Wangji’s shoulder.

“Hmph,” the baby agreed in his sleep.

Chapter Text

The air at the base of the Burial Mounds was thick with the scent of wet earth and ancient sorrow, but as Lan Qiren ascended the winding path, he felt only the heat of his own blood.

He had spent years in a state of suspended disbelief. His nephew—the pride of the Gusu Lan, the moral compass of his generation, the boy he had raised as a son after his brother's passing—had not only defected to live among corpses, but had apparently lost his mind entirely. The rumors reaching the Cloud Recesses had been nonsensical, whispered by merchants and rogue cultivators: There is a child in the mist.

Lan Qiren intended to end the madness. He would drag Lan Wangji back by his forehead ribbon if he had to.

Lan Qiren intended to excise this madness like a tumor. He did not call out nor did he announce himself. He shattered the final ward at the mouth of the Demon Slaughtering Cave with a flick of his sleeves, his spiritual energy erupting in a physical shockwave that sent the resentful mist recoiling in terror.

“Wangji! This madness ends today! You will return to the Cloud Recesses and—”

The words died in his throat. The Demon Slaughtering Cave was not the den of iniquity he had envisioned. It was... domestic.

There were blankets aired out over jagged stone ledges, their edges frayed but clean. A small, soot-stained pot of herbal tea simmered over a low fire, the steam curling into the damp air like a beckoning finger. And there, perched on a raised stone platform, sat the two most wanted men in the cultivation world.

Wei Wuxian was leaning back against Lan Wangji’s shoulder, his face pale and drawn, his frame looking dangerously fragile against the stark white of his partner's robes. Lan Wangji, meanwhile, held a small wooden comb, his fingers moving with surgical precision through the hair of the small being sitting in his lap.

The child could not have been more than two years old. He was a vision of Gusu silk and porcelain skin amidst the jagged gray of the cave, and he was also dressed in robes of the finest Gusu silk. Lan Qiren recognized them immediately as repurposed inner robes from Wangji’s own wardrobe, tailored down by a steady hand.

But it wasn't the clothes that made him stopped. It was the face.

Lan Qiren felt his knees buckle. He had to lean against the cold cave wall to keep from collapsing. He wasn't looking at a stranger. He was looking at a miniature, soft-edged version of the man he had seen in the mirror forty years ago. He was looking at his brother, Qingheng-jun. He was looking at Lan Wangji.

He was looking at the very essence of the Lan lineage.

The child had a brow so straight and noble it seemed to demand a throne. His skin was the color of polished milk, his eyes a startling, crystalline gold that did not merely look at Lan Qiren, it also weighed his soul and found it lacking.

“Uncle,” Lan Wangji said. He did not stand. He did not move to hide the child. He simply finished the braid he was working on and set the comb down with a click that sounded like a gavel.

“Wangji...” Lan Qiren’s voice was a ghost of itself. “What is this? Whose... whose child...”

“He’s mine,” Wei Wuxian chimed in, though his voice lacked its usual sharp bite. He looked at the boy with a tenderness that made Lan Qiren’s chest ache. “And Lan Zhan’s. Mostly Lan Zhan’s, if you go by the face. I think my genes just gave up and went home as soon as they saw how stubborn his forehead was.”

The toddler, sensing the shift in the room’s energy, turned his head. He rose from Lan Wangji’s lap with a deliberate, slow grace that was physically impossible for a child of his years.

He stood up, smoothed his tiny white robes with a flat palm, and walked toward the Grandmaster of Gusu.

Lan Qiren watched him approach, paralyzed. The boy stopped exactly three paces away. He stared at Lan Qiren’s face. Specifically, he stared at Lan Qiren’s goatee, which was currently disheveled from the wind and the fury of the climb.

The boy’s lip curled just a fraction of a millimeter. It was a look of such deep, intellectual disappointment that Lan Qiren instinctively reached up to smooth his facial hair.

Then, the boy performed the Salutation of the Inner Circle. It was a bow reserved for patriarchs and elders, involving a specific tilt of the head and a precise alignment of the thumbs. It was a bow Lan Qiren had spent weeks teaching the junior disciples, most of whom still tripped over their own feet.

This toddler executed it perfectly.

As he rose, the boy let out a sound. It wasn't a giggle. It wasn't even a babble. It was a low, resonant, vibrating:

“Hmph.”

Lan Qiren’s soul practically vibrated out of his body. He knew that sound. He had spent fifty years listening to that sound. It was the sound his brother made when a scroll was off-center. It was the sound Wangji made when his tea was two degrees too cold. It was the genetic signature of the Lan family’s displeasure.

Lan Qiren felt his world tilt on its axis. “He... he just... he hmphed at me. Wangji, your son just expressed his disapproval of my presence.”

“Not your presence, Uncle,” Lan Wangji said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Your lack of composure. Rule 52: Maintain a dignified gait at all times.”

“I was charging a mountain!” Lan Qiren shouted, though it felt more like a plea.

The toddler sighed. It was a long, weary sound, like the sound of a man who had seen the rise and fall of dynasties and found them all disappointing. He looked at Lan Qiren’s boots. There was a smear of red mud on the left toe.

The boy let out another, sharper “Hmph.” as he reached into a small pouch at his waist, pulled out a clean scrap of white silk, knelt down, and wiped the mud off Lan Qiren’s boot with a focused, obsessive intensity.

He stood back up, tucked the dirty silk away, and looked Lan Qiren in the eye.

“Messy,” the toddler whispered. “Rule 1: Cleanliness... is spirit.”

Lan Qiren felt the earth tilt. He sank to his knees in the dirt, his white robes billowing around him. He ignored the mud, his eyes fixed on the boy’s golden gaze.

“Wangji,” Lan Qiren wheezed, his voice breaking. “He... he just cited the first rule to me. He is barely tall enough to reach my knee, and he is already correcting my hygiene.”

“He has high standards, Uncle,” Lan Wangji said, stepping forward. 

Lan Qiren choked out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. He reached out a trembling hand, brushing the child’s cheek. The skin was like polished jade. “He is a miracle. He is a terrifying, miniature miracle of rectitude.”

He looked at Wei Wuxian, his eyes narrowing even as they stayed misty. “You. You birthed a disaster. You have created a being with your spirit and Wangji’s face. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“I know!“ Wei Wuxian tearily shouted while throwing his hands up. “He ‘Hmphs’ at my soup! He ‘Hmphs’ at my talismans! I tried to teach him a dirty song once and he just looked at me until I felt so ashamed I had to go sit in the corner for an hour!”

Lan Qiren looked back at the toddler. The boy was now looking at Lan Qiren’s goatee. The Grandmaster’s beard was slightly crooked from his frantic flight.

The toddler reached out, gripped the end of the goatee, and gave it a firm, corrective tug to the right.

“Better,” he muttered.

Lan Qiren didn't argue. And for once he didn’t give lecture. He simply sat in the dirt of the Burial Mounds, looked at his grand-nephew, and realized that for the first time in his life, he had met someone who was more of a Lan than he was.

“This is unacceptable,” Lan Qiren said, though the thunder had left his voice.

“He cannot grow up in this place. He needs the scrolls. He needs the music. He needs to be among his own kind.” 

“He is among his own kind,” Lan Wangji said, his voice hard as Bichen’s steel. “He is with his fathers.”

Lan Qiren looked from the defiant Hanguang-jun to the exhausted Yiling Patriarch, and finally to the Tiny Jade who was now attempting to teach a stray paper butterfly how to fly in a more orderly fashion.

“I will send the supplies,” Qiren muttered, turning away before they could see the moisture in his eyes. “I will send a tutor. I will send the records. And if I hear that he has learned a single one of Wei Wuxian's charms, I will personally lock the three of you in the Library Pavilion for a decade. And for the love of the ancestors, someone get this child a proper ribbon before he ‘Hmphs’ me into an early grave.”

As he stepped out into the mist, he heard a small voice call out behind him.

“Uncle?”

Qiren stopped, his heart stopping with him. He turned back. The toddler was standing at the entrance but he didn't wave. He simply nodded once—a gesture of immense respect and even greater dismissal.

“Hmph,” the boy said, a tiny dimple flickering for a second. “Next time... knock.”

Lan Qiren didn't stop walking until he reached the bottom of the mountain, where he sat on a rock and spent a full hour wondering how a two-year-old had managed to win a war that the entire cultivation world was losing.

Three days after Lan Qiren’s departure, the wards at the base of the mountain didn't just flare—they practically screamed.

The arrival of the Sect Leader of Yunmeng Jiang three days later was less of a visit and more of a localized natural disaster. 

Jiang Cheng had spent the entire journey from Lotus Pier fueling his rage, the purple sparks of Zidian dancing across his knuckles like caged hornets. He heared the whispers and the rumors that Lan Qiren had returned from the Yiling borders looking as though he’d seen a divine vision, and that the Cloud Recesses was suddenly shipping crates of silk and scholarly ink to a mass grave.

“Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Cheng roared as he stormed into the settlement, scattering a flock of thin chickens.

He tore through the settlement with the violet sparks of Zidian crackling at his wrist, his purple robes billowing like a storm cloud.

“Get out here! You absolute, brainless, self-sacrificing idiot!”

He rounded the corner of the Demon Slaughtering Cave, Sandu gripped so tightly his knuckles were white. He was prepared to fight fierce corpses. He was prepared to fight Lan Wangji.

He was not prepared for the three-foot-tall barricade standing in his way.

Standing in the middle of the dusty path, blocking the entrance to the cave with the unwavering resolve of a stone sentinel, was the toddler.

The child couldn't have been more than two and a half. He was wearing a set of black robes accented by a tiny wooden sword Lan Wangji had carved for him. But he wore them with such a rigid, upright posture that they looked like formal court attire. His hair was pulled back into a tiny, perfect bun, and his face was a portrait of serene, unbothered calm.

Jiang Cheng skidded to a halt, the purple lightning at his fingertips sputtering in confusion. He stared down while the toddler stared up.

The boy’s eyes were two pools of crystalline, molten gold—the exact shade of the man Jiang Cheng hated for being too perfect. His brow was set in a line of noble, unyielding iron. He didn't look like a child, he looked like a miniature judge presiding over a capital offense.

“Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Cheng roared, though his voice wavered as he looked at the kid. “What is this? Why is there a tiny, grumpy Hanguang-jun standing in my way?”

Wei Wuxian stepped out from behind a jagged rock, looking like he had aged ten years and slept for none. “Jiang Cheng, lower your voice. You’re vibrating the soup.”

“I'll vibrate your skull!” Jiang Cheng snapped, taking a step forward.

The toddler didn't flinch and didn't run to Wei Wuxian. Instead, he folded his tiny hands into his sleeves—a gesture so refined and condescending it made Jiang Cheng’s blood boil—and slowly let his gaze travel from Jiang Cheng’s boots to his head.

The boy looked at the mud on Jiang Cheng's hem. He looked at the way Jiang Cheng's hair was coming loose from his high ponytail. He looked at the frantic, undignified sparking of Zidian, and finally back up to his scowling, reddened face.

The toddler’s lip curled into a look of such deep, existential disappointment that it felt like a physical weight in the air.

“Hmph.”

The sound was low, resonant, and carried the genetic authority of the entire Lan lineage. It was the sound of a person who had seen the rules of the world and found the Sect Leader of Yunmeng Jiang to be a walking violation of every single one.

“Did he...” Jiang Cheng whispered, his face turning a shade of violet that matched his robes. “Did he just hmph at me? Wei Wuxian! Your brat just had the audacity to hmph at the Sect Leader of a Great Sect Yunmeng Jiang!”

“He did,” Wei Wuxian said, leaning against the cave wall with a weak, hysterical grin. “And honestly, Jiang Cheng? He’s right. You’re being very loud. It’s uncouth. Rule 110: Control your breathing to control your heart. You're panting like a dog.”

“I am not panting!” Jiang Cheng screamed, pointing a finger at the toddler. “You! Listen to me, you miniature menace! I am your—”

Jiang Cheng stopped. He didn't know what he was. Uncle? Enemy? A stranger?

He stopped. He didn't know what he was.

The toddler didn't wait for him to find the word. He stepped forward, his small boots crunching on the gravel with a steady, rhythmic pace. He stopped exactly two inches from Jiang Cheng’s boot. He reached up and pointed a tiny, accusing finger at Jiang Cheng’s belt.

One of the purple tassels was tangled around the hilt of his sword.

“Hmph.”

The toddler reached out, untangled the tassel with a sharp, corrective tug, smoothed it down, and then stepped back into his meditative stance. He looked Jiang Cheng in the eye and shook his head slowly.

“Messy,” the toddler whispered. 

Jiang Cheng felt the wind go out of his sails. He looked at the toddler, then at the dirt, then at the tiny, perfect Lan-nose on the boy’s face. The sheer, concentrated Lan-ness of the child was a more effective weapon than any spiritual blade. It made Jiang Cheng feel loud, clumsy, and—worst of all—incorrect.

“He's judging me,” Jiang Cheng muttered, his voice cracking with a mix of fury and genuine bewilderment.

“He’s thirty inches tall and he’s looking at me like I’m a piece of trash that failed to be a proper ornament.”

“He has high standards, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian laughed, finally losing his battle and howling with delight as he pick up the toodler.  “He spends all day with Lan Zhan. He thinks anything that isn't silent, white, and perfectly organized is a moral failing.”

The toddler, now tucked into Wei Wuxian’s arm, looked down at Jiang Cheng one last time. He saw the purple-clad man still clutching his sword, looking lost and angry.

It reached into his sleeve and pulled out a single, slightly crushed lotus seed he had been saving. He held it out to Jiang Cheng.

“Eat,” the boy commanded. “Hmph. Quiet... now.”

Jiang Cheng took the seed with a shaking hand. He looked at the boy, then at the loathsome Hanguang-jun quietly standing in the beside Wei Wuxian and finally at Wei Wuxian.

“I hate this mountain,” Jiang Cheng whispered, popping the seed into his mouth. “I hate the Gusu Lan. And I especially hate that this kid is right. My belt was tangled.”

The toddler sighed—a long, weary sound that suggested he was already tired of managing the adults in his life. He patted Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

“Uncle... is loud,” the boy muttered into Wei Wuxian's neck. “Hmph. Nap... time.”

“Father,” He said at Lan Wangji while pointing back at Jiang Cheng. “Loud man.”

Jiang Cheng stood in the middle of the path, holding a crushed lotus in his hand, feeling more insulted than he had ever been in his entire life. He looked at Lan Wangji, expecting some kind of apology, but the Second Jade of Lan was busy smoothing the toddler's hair with a look of terrifyingly smug approval.

“He is correct,” Lan Wangji said softly. “You are shouting, Sect Leader Jiang. It is unnecessary.”

Jiang Cheng looked at the three of them—the black, the white, and the tiny, grumpy bridge between them. He tucked the lotus seed into his sleeve, his face a complicated mess of emotions.

“I hate all of you,” Jiang Cheng muttered, though he didn't pull out Sandu again. “I'm coming back in two weeks with decent food. And if that kid hmphs at my boots again, I’m throwing him in the lotus pond.”

The toddler didn't even look back. He just let out one last, faint “Hmph” as his father headed toward the cave while carrying him, leaving the most feared man in Yunmeng wondering if he should have brushed his hair before coming to a mass grave.

Back at Yunmeng, Jiang Cheng spent the rest of the evening sitting beside the lotus pond, eating lotus seed in total silence, terrified that if he so much as cleared his throat, the toddler would wake up and judge him again even if they were mile aparts. 

Chapter Text

The visit from Lan Xichen was meant to be the diplomatic bridge that finally mended the rift between the Burial Mounds and the Cloud Recesses. While Lan Qiren had come with fire and brimstone, and Jiang Cheng had come with lightning and thunder, the First Jade of Lan arrived with the serenity of a moonlit lake.

But Lan Xichen, for all his wisdom and his ability to read his brother’s silent stares, was entirely unprepared for the sheer, concentrated potency of the child who was currently sitting at the entrance of the Demon Slaughtering Cave.

Lan Xichen rounded the final bend of the mountain path, his white and blue robes shimmering with a spiritual glow that repelled the dark mist. He looked like a god descending into a graveyard. He carried a basket of fresh loquats from Caiyi Town and a new set of calligraphy brushes, his heart full of a cautious, hopeful joy.

He saw them immediately. Lan Wangji was standing by a small patch of struggling radishes with his posture perfect, while Wei Wuxian was sitting on the ground, trying to convince a toddler to eat a piece of fruit.

“Wangji. Young Master Wei,” Lan Xichen called out, his voice a warm melody.

The toddler froze. He was currently wearing a miniature version of the Gusu Lan training robes—painstakingly modified by Wen Qing—and a small, dark cloak. He looked like a tiny, solemn crow that had somehow been taught the secrets of the heavens.

Lan Xichen glided forward, his sect leader smile firmly in place. It was a smile that had pacified angry generals and charmed the most cynical elders. It was his armor and his gift.

“And this must be the little one,” Lan Xichen said softly, kneeling in the dirt. 

He didn't care about the mud staining his silk as his eyes were fixed on the boy’s face. “I am your Uncle, little one. I have heard so much about you.”

The toddler didn't retreat. He didn't even hide behind Wei Wuxian’s leg. He stood his ground, his small hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, and stared at Lan Xichen’s face with a terrifyingly lucid intensity.

He looked at Lan Xichen’s eyes. He looked at the perfect curve of Lan Xichen’s lips. He looked at the way the sunlight caught the silver thread of Xichen’s forehead ribbon. Then he looked back at the smile.

The silence stretched. Wei Wuxian held his breath while Lan Wangji watched with an unreadable expression.

Slowly, the toddler’s eyes narrowed. His brow, already possessing the noble weight of the Lan lineage, furrowed. 

“Hmph.”

Lan Xichen blinked in genuine confusion, his smile faltering for the first time in a decade. “Oh? Did I... did I say something offensive?”

“He thinks you're fake,” Wei Wuxian cackled, leaning against a tree. “He’s been around Lan Zhan too long, Zewu-jun! He doesn't trust anyone who smiles that much. He thinks it's a breach of Rule 12: Do not be overly frivolous.”

“I am not being frivolous!” Lan Xichen protested, looking at his brother for help. "Wangji, tell him I am his Uncle!"

The toddler took a step forward. He reached out a tiny, pale finger and poked Lan Xichen’s knee. Then, he pointed at his own father, Lan Wangji.

“Father... is... truth,” he said, his voice small but vibrating with authority. Then he pointed at Lan Xichen.

“Uncle... is... pretend. Hmph.”

Lan Xichen felt as though he had been hit with a spiritual blast. He was the most beloved man in the cultivation world, and he had just been called a fake by a two-year-old in a graveyard.

“He's not wrong, Zewu-jun,” Wei Wuxian added, a bit of sympathy in his voice. “He thinks if you're happy, your eyes should show it. If you're tired, your mouth should show it. Your face is too perfect for him. It’s a breach of his personal rules of reality.”

The toddler let out another, sharper “Hmph.” before reaching out and tugged on Lan Xichen’s sleeve, pulling the Sect Leader closer. He leaned in and whispered, with the gravity of a man discussing the fate of the world. 

“Too much teeth,” he muttered. “Father use only... eyes.”

Lan Xichen let out a startled laugh—a real one this time, not the sect leader mask. “He’s right! Wangji, he’s absolutely right. I am being too performative.”

The moment Lan Xichen’s smile became genuine and slightly embarrassed, the toddler’s expression shifted.

“Is this better?” Lan Xichen asked quietly.

The toddler studied him again. This time, it didn't scowl. He saw the genuine sadness in Lan Xichen’s eyes and the way his shoulders had slumped just a fraction.

He didn't smile—that was asking too much—but he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small, dried butterfly he had found in the cave. He placed it in Lan Xichen’s palm.

“For... Uncle,” the toodler said, his voice dropping the hmph tone for a moment. “But... fix hair. Messy.”

Lan Xichen touched his hair, which was perfectly in place, but he realized a single strand had come loose during the climb. He laughed, a deep, joyful sound. “He is more observant than the Discipline Hall elders. Wangji, he is a treasure.”

“He is a menace,” Lan Wangji corrected, though he was beaming. “He spent twenty minutes this morning ‘Hmphing’ at a spider because its web wasn't symmetrical.”

Lan Xichen reached out and gently brushed the toddler’s forehead. He felt the spiritual energy—the bright, chaotic heat of Wei Wuxian and the cool, steady flow of Lan Wangji. It was a perfect harmony.

“The Cloud Recesses will never be the same,” Lan Xichen said, looking at the child with a mix of wonder and dread. “When he eventually comes for his official naming, the Elders won’t know what hit them. They'll be too busy being judged by a three-foot-tall Grandmaster.”

The toddler, sensing the conversation was over, went back to his mud puddle. He looked at the butterfly in Lan Xichen’s hand, then at the basket of loquats.

“Wash... first. Dust... is... Rule 8.” he said while pointing at the fruit.

“He's quoting the rules at me,” Lan Xichen whispered, utterly delighted despite being bossed around by a toddler.

“Young Master Wei, he’s not even three and he’s already enforcing the hygiene protocols of the Cloud Recesses.”

“He also spends a lot of time with Wen Qing,” Wei Wuxian explained. “Between her needles and Lan Zhan’s books, the kid is basically a tiny, walking encyclopedia of how everyone else is doing things wrong.”

As Lan Xichen spent the afternoon sitting in the dirt, peeling loquats for his grand-nephew and listening to the boy critique the lack of symmetry in the cave's stone formations, he realized that the Gusu Lan had not lost a son to the Burial Mounds. They had gained a master.

“You know,” Lan Xichen said, watching the toddler try to teach Wei Wuxian how to sit even more straight.

“When the Elders finally see him, they won’t try to punish him. They'll probably try to make him the Head of the Discipline Hall by his fifth birthday.”

“Hmph,” the toddler agreed, not looking up from his neatly arranged loquat seeds.

The sun began to dip behind the jagged peaks of the Yiling mountains, casting long, orderly shadows across the settlement. Lan Xichen rose, brushing the dust from his pristine robes with a newfound sense of peace. He looked at the butterfly the child had given him—a fragile thing, yet held with more care than his own Sect Leader's seal.

“I shall return to the Cloud Recesses with a heavy heart, but a light spirit,” Lan Xichen murmured to his brother.

“Mn.”

He then turned to the toddler who was busy ensuring the empty loquat basket was perfectly parallel to the cave entrance. “Goodbye for now, little master. I shall bring more fruit next time—triple-washed, per Rule 8.”

The toddler didn't look up, but he gave a single, sharp nod of approval as Lan Xichen descended the mountain. 

The rumors had finally trickled down from the heights of the Cloud Recesses and through the purple piers of Yunmeng, eventually finding their way into the delicate, fan-obscured ears of Nie Huaisang.

Nie Huaisang had arrived at the Burial Mounds with the air of a man attending a high-stakes secret auction. He didn't come with the thunderous indignation of Lan Qiren or the lightning-veined fury of Jiang Cheng. Instead, he arrived under a silk parasol the color of a winter melon, smelling of rare orchids and expensive ink. His robes a chaotic symphony of emerald, gold, and teal silks that fluttered with every delicate step.

He had spent the last week fluttering his fan in the teahouse, collecting every scrap of gossip he can find. He had heard that the Great Grandmaster Lan Qiren had been humbled, and that the Sect Leader of Yunmeng Jiang had been critiqued by a toddler. He had heard that the child was a mirror of Hanguang-jun, possessing a “Hmph” so powerful it could stall a spiritual sword.

For a man who lived for the subtle shifts in the world's social fabric, this was better than any rare silk or ancient scroll. Nie Huaisang simply had to see the disaster for himself.

He found the family near a small, flat stone table that had been scrubbed until the rock itself looked offended. Wei Wuxian was lounging on a nearby log, lazily carving a flute, while Lan Wangji stood as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on the small being between them.

The toodler was occupied. He wasn't playing with the wooden butterfly Wei Wuxian had made him. Instead, he was sitting with a spine so straight it looked like it had been measured with a ruler. In front of him was a set of calligraphy brushes—a gift from Lan Qiren’s first supply drop—and he was painstakingly arranging them in a row. Not just a row, but a perfect gradient from the largest goat-hair brush to the smallest wolf-hair tip.

Nie Huaisang stopped, his fan snapping open with a flourish that sent a scent of jasmine into the stale mountain air. “Wei-xiong... Hanguang-jun... I thought the stories were surely the exaggerations of drunkards. But to see him in the flesh... it is like looking at a miniature, frowning deity.”

The toddler’s hand, poised over a calligraphy brush, froze.

“Huaisang! You made it," Wei Wuxian chirped, not looking up from his carving. “Come in, come in. Watch your step, my little Lan Zhan just finished optimizing the gravel path. If you kick a stone out of place, he’ll make you sit in silence for twenty minutes.”

Nie Huaisang glided forward, his fan fluttering like the wings of a panicked bird. His silks rustling like a field of dry grass. He knelt down, his many-layered robes spilling over the ash-stained earth. “Oh, he is a masterpiece! Look at those golden eyes. Hello, little one. Would you like to see a treasure?”

With a theatrical flick of his wrist, Nie Huaisang snapped his fan shut and then popped it open again. It was a rare piece, painted with a chaotic, vibrant scene of a hundred colorful birds dancing through a plum orchard. It was a riot of color, gold leaf, and swirling movement.

Slowly, the toddler turned his head. He didn't look at the birds nor at the gold leaf. Instead, he looked at Nie Huaisang’s wrist.

Nie Huaisang was wearing three different jade bracelets, a silver watch-charm, and a silk cord that was slightly frayed at the end. His hair was also styled in the deliberately messy fashion of the Qinghe elite, with several strands of hair hanging artfully over his eyes.

The toddler’s brow—that noble, unyielding Lan expanse—narrowed into a sharp, judgmental form. 

“Hmph.”

“Oh dear,” Nie Huaisang whispered, his fan faltering. “Did I... did I startle him?”

“No,” Lan Wangji said, his voice a low, steady rumble of paternal pride. “He finds the visual noise... exhausting.”

The toddler set his calligraphy brush down with a precise click. He rose from his position and walked toward Nie Huaisang with a deliberate, slow grace and stopped exactly three paces away.

He reached out a tiny, imperious hand. Nie Huaisang, mesmerized, gingerly handed over the expensive fan.

The toddler held it up to the light. He didn't admire the art. He noticed a tiny, microscopic drop of dried tea that had stained the silk near the bamboo spine. He also noticed that the birds on the left were clustered more densely than the birds on the right.

The toddler let out another, deeper “Hmph.” before he handed the fan back to Nie Huaisang as if he were returning a piece of spoiled fruit.

“Too many,” the toddler said to Lan Wangji, who in return, give him a nod as if he’s agreeing with his child. 

“Mn.”

“One bird... is quiet. Many birds... are a headache.”

“A headache?” Nie Huaisang gasped, looking at Wei Wuxian. “Wei-xiong! Your son just performed a stylistic execution of a fan that cost me three months allowance! This was painted by a master!”

“He doesn't care about masters, Huaisang,” Wei Wuxian laughed, leaning his chin on his palm. “He cares about the Gusu Lan Principles of Harmony. And right now, your left sleeve is higher than your right because your posture is playfully slumped. It’s making his six baby teeth ache just to be in your presence.”

Nie Huaisang looked down at his robes. To his horror, his emerald outer layer was indeed skewed from the trek up the mountain. He saw the toddler watching him, waiting with a terrifying, silent patience for him to correct the disorder.

It leaned forward and tapped Nie Huaisang’s chest, right over his heart. Then, he pointed at Nie Huaisang's eyes.

“Think... before... flutter,” the toddler commanded.

Nie Huaisang froze. For a second, he felt as though those golden eyes had pierced through his clumsy playboy mask, through his I don't know anything defenses, and seen the sharp, calculating mind underneath. The boy wasn't just judging his robes but he was also judging his sincerity.

Nie Huaisang snapped his fan shut and tucked it away into his belt, sitting up with a spine as straight as a bamboo pole that would have made Lan Qiren weep with joy.

"He's terrifying," Nie Huaisang whispered, a genuine, sharp smile breaking through. “He’s like a concentrated dose of Hanguang-jun’s discipline mixed with a drop of your terrifying intuition, Wei-xiong. He’s going to reorganize the entire cultivation world before he’s old enough to hold a real sword, isn't he?”

“Hmph,” the toddler agreed, turning back to his calligraphy brushes. He pointed at Nie Huaisang’s belt. 

“Beads... are wrong. Blue... then... white. Fix it.”

Nie Huaisang didn't argue. He didn't even have the energy to make an excuse. He simply sat in the dirt of the Burial Mounds and began re-threading his belt beads under the watchful, golden gaze of a two-year-old, convinced that this little master was the only person in the world he couldn't lie to—and the only one who could make him care about the symmetry of his jewelry.

Chapter Text

The meeting between the Tiny Jade of the Burial Mounds and the Young Master of Lanling Jin was an event that the cultivation world was fortunately unprepared for. It was a clash of two very different brands of royalty: one born in a golden palace with a silver spoon, and the other born in a cave with a heart of jade.

Jin Ling was barely four months old—a bundle of sunlight-yellow silk, expensive embroidery, and a temperament that suggested he had inherited every ounce of the Jiang temper and the Jin arrogance. He was currently being held by a visibly awkward Jiang Cheng, who had brought the infant to the neutral border at the foot of the Burial Mounds, claiming the child needed fresh mountain air, though everyone knew he just wanted to see if the two cousins would kill each other upon sight.

Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji arrived with their toodler, who was now nearly three. The toddler was dressed in his signature black-and-white robes, his hair tied in a bun so precise it looked like it had been measured with a level.

Jiang Cheng stepped forward, holding the infant like he was carrying a ticking spiritual bomb.

“Here,” Jiang Cheng barked, sounding defensive before a word was even spoken. “Look at him. This is a Sect Heir, Wei Wuxian. He has the best tutors waiting for him, the best food, and the best lineage. He’s already ten times more dignified than you ever were.”

Jin Ling, as if personally offended by the damp mountain air, chose that exact moment to let out a piercing, high-pitched wail. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated entitlement. He kicked his tiny legs, his face turning a shade of angry crimson that clashed horribly with his Jin gold robes.

The toodler walked forward with a slow, measured pace, stopped exactly three paces away from Jiang Cheng, and looked up at the screaming infant.

The toddler’s eyes—those pools of crystalline, molten gold—traveled from Jin Ling’s flailing, chubby arms to the slightly crooked vermilion mark on the baby's forehead. His brow narrowed into a sharp, devastating V. He slowly folded his tiny hands into his sleeves.
“Hmph.”

“He's doing it again!” Jiang Cheng hissed, his grip on the baby tightening as Zidian gave a sympathetic spark.

“He's hmph-ing at a baby! Wei Wuxian, tell your kid to show some respect to his cousin!”

“I can't tell him anything, Jiang Cheng,” Wei Wuxian whispered, mesmerized. “He’s in discipline hall mode. Look at his stance. He hasn't even blinked.”

The toodler stared at Jin Ling, who was still screaming at the top of his lungs. The toddler didn't look annoyed; he looked disappointed, as if he were watching a senior disciple fail a basic meditation exercise.

“Loud,” the toddler said. His voice was a calm, steady bell in the middle of the storm. “Rule 11: Do not wail... without cause.”

Jin Ling, shocked by the sudden appearance of a small person talking to him with the authority of a Grandmaster, actually stopped mid-scream. He hiccuped while his big, dark eyes focusing on his cousin’s stern, milk-pale face.

He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small, clean piece of Gusu silk—a gift from the Great Uncle Lan Qiren. He reached up, but because he was too short, he looked at Jiang Cheng with a gaze of such profound command that the Sect Leader of Yunmeng actually knelt down without thinking.

The toddler used the silk to wipe a stray tear from Jin Ling’s cheek with surgical precision. Then, he pointed a tiny, accusing finger at the baby’s golden collar, which was slightly twisted to the left.

“Hmph.”

He reached out, straightened the collar until it was perfectly symmetrical, and then patted Jin Ling’s chest twice with a firm, corrective hand.

“Better,” the toddler muttered.

Jin Ling stared, his tiny mouth hanging open. For a moment, it looked like he might start crying again, but then the baby did something unexpected. He reached out a chubby, uncoordinated hand and grabbed the toodler nose, pulling it with a wet, sticky grip.

He froze. His eyes went wide. This was a physical violation of at least seven Gusu rules regarding personal space, bodily autonomy, and the sanctity of the face.

Lan Wangji moved instinctively, but he stopped when he saw his child’s reaction. The toddler didn't push the baby away. He didn't cry. He simply closed his eyes, let out a long, weary sigh—the sigh of a man who realized that his cousin was a primitive work in progress—and stayed perfectly still, enduring the indignity for the sake of family harmony.

“He's allowing it,” Wei Wuxian whispered, his voice thick with a mix of laughter and tears. “Lan Zhan, look! He’s is practicing endurance! He’s sacrificing his dignity for the sake of the younger generation!”

“Mn,” Lan Wangji replied, his eyes softening with terrifying pride.

After ten minutes of Jin Ling pulling at the toddler’s hair, trying to eat his sleeve, and leaving a trail of drool on his pristine black collar, Jiang Cheng finally pulled the baby away.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Jiang Cheng muttered, looking at the toddler with a strange, grudging respect. “At least he’s quiet now. I don't know what you did, kid, but he hasn't been this calm since we left the Golden Koi Tower.”

The toddler just smoothed his robes where the baby had wrinkled them, his fingers moving with obsessive speed to restore order to his person. He looked at Jin Ling, who was now chewing on his own thumb and staring back at his cousin with wide-eyed wonder.

“Uncle,” he said, looking up at Jiang Cheng.

“What?” Jiang Cheng snapped, though he instinctively checked his belt for tangles.

The toddler pointed at Jin Ling’s forehead. “Mark... is crooked. Five millimeters... to the left. It is... improper.”

Jiang Cheng looked at the vermilion mark on Jin Ling’s brow. He squinted. He rubbed his eyes. “It looks fine to me! It's a dot! How can a dot be crooked?”

“Hmph.” He didn't bother explaining. He turned his back on the Sect Leader, walked over to Lan Wangji, and grabbed his father’s hand.

“Father... we go. Cousin... needs... more training. Much... more.”

As they walked back up the mountain, Jin Ling let out a small, experimental sound. It wasn't a “Goo” or a “Gaa.” It was a tiny, high-pitched, vibrating sound.

“Hmp!”

Jiang Cheng froze in his tracks, looking down at the infant in absolute horror.

“Oh no. Oh, absolutely not. Wei Wuxian! Your kid is contagious! He’s corrupted the heir of Lanling Jin! Come back here and fix this! He's hmph-ing at me!”

But the kid didn't look back, as well as his parents. He simply kept walking, his spine perfectly straight while holding his parents hand. In his mind, he’s already planning the corrective curriculum for Jin Ling’s first official visit to the Burial Mounds.