Sometimes, Wen Zhuliu wished he could travel back in time and stop himself from getting into the situation that left him indebted to Wen Ruohan. Back to the time when he was a young and foolish rogue cultivator. Back to the time when he was bound to nothing and no one, roaming the lands without a worry.
Back to the time when he walked through the woods in Meishan.
But wishes were futile in times of blood and war and Wen Zhuliu knew better than wish for things he could never have.
He’d learned the hard way.
There was a time, in not-so-distant past when he, briefly, thought—
But of course it would not do.
He’d known it the moment she had walked into his arms and clung to him like he was the only thing that kept her sane, like his touch was all that mattered, when she kissed him with dark desperation that already carried within the promise of the end of everything. He’d known because he’d felt the same.
They had been doomed since the moment he first kissed her but he didn’t care.
She died with her head held high, like the formidable Mistress everyone knew her to be. He’d been bound to protect a sniveling, whiny thing hardly worth her little finger. For a moment, he’d thought about turning his back to his promise and taking her side but he didn’t. He had made a promise and deep within himself, he knew that she would never respect him if he went back on his word.
They were the same, her and him.
And when she died, she took half of his soul with her.
To be fair, he never entertained the idea of having children of his own. He knew the kind of man he was: standoffish and hard, brittle and unyielding at the same time. He was no father and he could never be, considering the sole purpose of his being was to keep Wen Ruohan’s spawn and, by extension, his companion, safe. Not even when he buried himself inside her with fervor he’d never felt before—foolishly hoping he could burrow under her skin and stay—did he think he would leave something behind.
Perhaps he should have.
Perhaps she had been as desperate as he.
So, when he reached out his hand to press it on her son’s chest, it took all his willpower to stay still and not recoil in horror because he recognized the part that wasn’t her. It didn’t matter—there was nothing to be done but watch as the curse in him burned away the brightly shining core of his own son.
He deserved everything that would come after.
He closed his eyes and drank the drugged wine, knowing his son’s body would be gone when he woke up.
He didn’t know how it happened—perhaps she reached back from the Heavens and poured all her rage back into her son—but he was restored to full health and shone even brighter than ever, commanding, pure. It would only be a matter of time before he and Wen Chao would be caught and part of him was eager for it all to be over.
(Sometimes, he wanted to yank his younger self forward in time and shove him in front of the pitiful, wailing lump that was Wen Chao and ask if he really thought this would be worth it, if this was what he would be willing to do in the future. But wants were like wishes, futile. There was only the present and the sum of all his actions so far. There was only what he deserved.)
”Don’t cry,” he said to Wen Chao as he tried to apply the ointment on his festering wounds. It didn’t matter, of course, because he knew Wen Chao was already dead. Perhaps not that day but the day after, or the day after that—it made no difference. He felt their end like a whisper over his shoulder, a caress of cold lips in the nape of his neck.
He was tired.
The red ghost turned on him, hissing and tearing at his face and clothes, dissipating into thin air when he fought back, Wen Chao’s hysterical screaming as a background noise he set aside. He knew he was fighting a losing game, knew this was his last stand. Wei Wuxian commanded shadows and ghosts with an eery calmness in his eyes and a thousand nightmares whispering over his shoulder, immovable, invincible, unbeatable. He’d risen from the Burial Mounds and brought it with him and there was nothing to be done.
Wen Zhuliu tried anyway.
He turned to Wei Wuxian who cocked his head and looked at him like he was something to be amused about and—
Purple lightning shot out with a clasp of thunder and wrapped itself around his throat, burning his skin and searing his brain with blinding pain. His hands reached up and yanked at the unyielding cord for a show and then gripped it, holding on to the last physical reminder he had of her.
Last, except for her son who stared at him with hatred in the eyes that looked so much like hers, holding on to Zidian with a power she would’ve been fiercely proud of.
But she wasn’t there so he was proud of their son in her stead.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the red ghost swim closer, tilting her head like a curious bird. Then her face rippled like a clear pond in a summer breeze, revealing a face he never expected to see again in this life.
Please, wait for me, he prayed as the ghost of Ziyuan pressed her cool lips against his. Please, let me apologize for all the things I’ve done. Let me tell you how formidable your son is.
Please—