There is a thing people don’t know about the Nie sect.
Or, well, there are many things people don’t know about the Nie sect, just like there are many things the Nie sect doesn’t know about, say, the Lan sect. The individual cultivation secrets of each sect are secrets for a reason and only taught to the disciples on a need-to-know basis. Some sects have a stricter hierarchy than others, and some sects don’t really have a hierarchy at all.
People would probably claim that the Nie are one of those no-hierarchy sects.
People would be wrong.
Huaisang is aware that da-ge always knew he would die young. That was the way of the Nie; their volatile cultivation drove them closer to Qi-deviation each day, and there really was no way around it.
(”There is,” Huaisang argued back when they still had conversations like this.
”No,” da-ge said. ”There is no other way.”
And that was that.
For da-ge, that is.)
Their father was driven to madness when his saber was tampered with and he had no time to consider other options. As Huaisang grows older and realizes just how their father had been robbed from them, it ignites a dark flame inside him. It resides in his lower dantian where da-ge always says his golden core is. But his flickering core has never felt like this, burning with a cold, fiery power that licks through his veins like that wine Huaisang once tasted from da-ge’s cup.
He tries asking da-ge what it is but it’s one of those rare things da-ge absolutely refuses to talk about. Da-ge really should know better because that only adds to Huaisang’s curiosity and he digs in tooth and nail, pestering Lao Gang until the gnarly, old archivist lets him into the restricted section of the Nie library. (”Don’t come whining about nightmares,” Nie Gang barked. ”You choose to learn, you choose to deal. That’s how it goes, Young Master.”)
Many things make more sense after that.
Da-ge’s adamant refusal to try was not among those things.
”No!” Da-ge growls and swipes the table clean of cups and scrolls and brushes. They clatter on the floor in haphazard patterns, smearing tea and ink on the tiles and on Huaisang’s robes.
”Da-ge, please consider—”
”I. Will. Not.”
There’s a wild look in da-ge’s eyes as he turns to snarl at Huaisang. He’s been deteriorating at an elevated pace and it claws at Huaisang’s insides, this need to help, to make better, to— to—
Huaisang doesn’t understand. If there is a proven, documented way to counter the Qi-deviation, why doesn’t da-ge grab the chance? He can’t seriously claim it’s the worse alternative, can he? How is succumbing to blind rage and madness better than succumbing to a more, well, restrained madness?
But no. There’s no turning da-ge’s head when he’s set his mind on something. It doesn’t matter that Huaisang shows him his affinity, demonstrates the ease he spins the coldness with a (frankly surprising) ease in the Ancestral Tombs. It doesn’t matter because da-ge has decided that the Nie secret is tainted and wrong.
Huaisang decides to keep studying anyway.
The something in him recognizes a something in Wei-xiong and for a moment, Huaisang is both terrified and relieved that despite everything that’s been written in the Nie Ancestral records, they aren’t alone.
And then it becomes bitterly clear how alone they are.
And then…
Huaisang screams and begs and pleads and fights against San-ge’s hold as his da-ge rips himself apart in throes of violent Qi-deviation, growling and roaring, attacking shadows and San-ge alike. When it’s over, his da-ge, his Sect Leader, his only family, lies on the ground in a mangled heap as his blood seeps through the cracks in the stone.
Huaisang staggers to the carnage and falls on his knees, ignoring the way sticky blood catches on his robes and starts to climb up. He doesn’t know what to do. He never wanted this—he never wanted to lose his da-ge, to try and make it on his own, to—to—to be alone.
”Huaisang,” San-ge says gently. ”I’m so sorry.” He sounds so genuine, so devastated, and Huaisang doesn’t need to look at him to see that his face is arranged in a perfect expression of grief.
He doesn’t trust it.
For some reason, the something in him has turned colder in San-ge’s presence but he just can’t quite figure out why. Because of his and da-ge’s fallout years ago? Because San-ge has proven to be cunning and wildly adaptive?
He doesn’t know.
And then, he finds the book.
As the characters seem to rise up from the page and dance in front of his eyes, as he realizes just how utterly, unflinchingly they’d been betrayed, a strange sense of calm washes over him.
He is alone, yes.
But he won’t be for long.
Lao Gang gives him an inscrutable look when he asks for specific scrolls but he doesn’t protest. Perhaps he sees something in Huaisang’s eyes. Perhaps he, too, senses that there’s something not-quite-right in da-ge’s death.
Perhaps there’s the something in him that recognizes a kindred spirit in Huaisang.
The ritual itself isn’t difficult, just complicated, requiring a steady hand and affinity with intricate shapes and characters. To think that Huaisang’s penchant for painting fans has prepared him for this. Fate surely has a sense of irony, hasn’t she?
As he prepares the array and the potion and the incense, he doesn’t let himself think about how things will be after. He’s already living a sort of nightmare, there’s no need to think about what will be waiting for him when his quest is done. Instead, he concentrates on his breathing, on the gentle swirl of fragrant smoke in the air, on the cool drag of a brush against his skin. The characters make his head swim so he doesn’t try to focus on them and lets his hand follow the pattern he memorized through and through. When the talismans are done and the array is activated, he downs the potion and recites the summoning that gives the final permission for the door between him and his ancestral legacy to finally open.
He’s not sure what he expects—perhaps a violent downpour of possession he has to fight to stay in control of his body—but a polite, gradual slithering of cold, contained malice isn’t it.
Well, well, well, it says, something hungry in the hissing chorus, eager and giddy. This is certainly a surprise.
”No, I don’t think it is,” Huaisang muses.
Hm. You are not what we expected.
”My apologies for disappointing you.”
The voices purr and ripple with amusement. You misunderstand, Young Master. You are anything but a disappointment.
He sits for a moment, breathes deeply as he takes stock of his body. His core, as feeble as it is, is in its proper place in his lower dantian but around it, almost lazily, spins a sphere of darkness. He reaches out for it as he would for his core while meditating and finds himself staring into the void itself.
It’s not a pleasant feeling but he already knows he will learn to push through the discomfort.
So. What did you have in mind, Young Master.
”How do you feel about hunting?”
The entity—the legacy he shares his body now with—crows in delight and the sensation sends shivers down his spine.
With a smile, Huaisang stands up and walks to the basin in the corner, and starts wiping off the characters from his skin. He already has a plan and the first step is to reach out to a petty criminal and commission her to steal some documents from Lanling. She won’t succeed, of course, but she’ll be the first stone on the Go board.
He rolls his shoulders and shrugs on an underrobe, checking from the mirror that no residual brush strokes are visible, and fixes his hair back to his usual style.
And, for a moment, the eyes that meet his, are green with slitted, yellow pupils.