After everything, after the battle of wills and wits in the Guanyin temple, after the dust starts to settle, Wen Ning finally tells A-Yuan who he is—who they are. They decide to travel the jianghu, help those who need help, marvel at the little things that make it worth continuing one’s existence, and learn everything there is to learn about each other.
A-Yuan has forgotten a lot.
Wen Ning never got to learn much.
It’s peaceful and fulfilling, satisfying in a way Wen Ning wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again.
”Jie, he’s grown into a fine young man,” he tells his sister after lighting her a stick of incense. They are at an unnamed, forgotten shrine, the kind that gets slowly overgrown with grass and weeds, the altar gradually leaning sideways until it keels over altogether. They clean it up, straighten the altar and sweep the floor, and set out fresh bowls of offerings and whittle new incense holders.
Wen Ning glances over his shoulder at A-Yuan sitting straight-backed on a low stone, meditating. He smiles, although the motion is stiff and small, and turns back to the incense and starts to talk about their travels. He likes to think Jie is huffing and rolling her eyes at them both, muttering something about soft-hearted fools under her breath.
Thinking about her still hurts but there’s a sliver of peace underneath the ache.
They raise the cenotaph for Jie and the rest of their family, making sure the foundation is stable and the structure sturdy, adding talismans to help keep it pristine. Wen Ning tells A-Yuan all the best stories about Uncle Four and Granny and his parents, about the hammocks out behind the village, about the sturdy, old apple tree that was perfect for climbing, about the sticky rice treats Jie used to love. A-Yuan brims with love for the family he’s lost, eyes bright with tears and determination, and Wen Ning is so proud of him that he feels ready to burst.
They travel more, solve small hauntings and bigger cases, circling slowly eastward from Qishan. Wen Ning teaches A-Yuan what little he remembers of Jie’s medical cultivation and A-Yuan absorbs it all like a parched man finally given water.
”I’m sorry I don’t remember more,” Wen Ning apologizes as he’s unable to answer some of A-Yuan’s more complicated questions.
”I understand, Uncle Ning,” he says with a bright smile. ”Thank you for everything you’ve told me.”
It feels so little and so late and nowhere near enough but Wen Ning ducks his head and nods.
A-Yuan is the last Wen alive. Perhaps that legacy is enough.
As they cross the lush plains of Jianghuai—keeping carefully away from the Yunmeng Jiang territory—it’s clear where they, or at least A-Yuan, is heading. So, when A-Yuan gazes at the horizon and says, ”I think I’ll be on my way, Uncle Ning,” it doesn’t come as a surprise.
”Give my greetings to Master Wei and Hanguang-jun,” he says.
A-Yuan glances at him from the corner of his eye. ”You could come and greet them yourself.”
”I could,” Wen Ning agrees. ”But I think I’d like to wander for a while.”
”I understand,” A-Yuan says. He hands Wen Ning a stack of pre-charged talismans, and even without his explanation, Wen Ning recognizes Master Wei’s design. ”Just remember that if we cross paths, I’m always happy to share your company,” he says eagerly and bows before hugging him goodbye.
Wen Ning watches him walk away, this young man who could’ve grown bitter and resentful but has chosen to be grateful and curious instead. He waits until the road curves to the left and A-Yuan vanishes from sight before he turns around and cocks his head at the clouds slowly drifting across the sky.
He doesn’t know where he’s going but he doesn’t think it matters.
According to Master Wei, the chains used to bind him down have absorbed enough of his particular flavor of resentful energy, turning them into spiritual weapons. Wen Ning can’t deny that they’re highly effective but at the same time, rather uncomfortable and often intimidating to haul around draped over his shoulders and wrapped around his forearms. Hanguang-jun gave him a qiankun pouch to store them in and now they travel with him in that humble, worn pouch tied to his belt.
Every now and then, when he’s alone and in a contemplative mood, he takes them out. They’re heavy and long and the cones on each end are wickedly sharp, and they try to wrap around him with something akin to a purr. (He thinks Master Wei would be fascinated.) He ignores their displays of possessive affection and wipes them down with a soft cloth and rubs cheap sword oil onto each link until the metal emits a dull shine.
”I don’t need you right now,” he says politely. ”Please, return to your pouch until I call for you.”
They settle, giving off a sulking air.
Keeping track of the passage of time is sometimes challenging. Back when he was held, Wen Ning existed in a state of penumbra only peripherally aware of the world moving around him. Now, he tracks the time via the changing of seasons if he happens to be in an area that has distinctive seasons, otherwise he tries to detect the subtle signs of aging in A-Yuan and Master Wei.
The faint laughter lines Master Wei gathers in the corners of his eyes would make something hitch in Wen Ning’s chest if he had something to hitch.
Sometimes, he’s almost sure he can spy threads of silver in Master Wei’s hair. He never mentions it, though—reminding the ragtag remnants of his chosen family of their impending loss would only be cruel. And Wen Ning doesn’t enjoy cruelty.
So, he keeps his peace and watches Master Wei; the relaxed curve of his smiling mouth and the ease with which he leans on his husband and son both. He basks in the warmth of their love and it radiates outward from them like ripples in a pond.
Wen Ning sits back, closes his eyes, and breathes it in, absorbs it into the pathways that haven’t felt warmth in over a decade.
It feels a lot like life.