Lan Zhan

The night at Lotus Pier was damp and sultry. A squad of Lan Clan cultivators advanced along the walkway, their white robes shining in the moonlight. Lan Zhan led the way, his hand on Bicheng, the ribbon on his forehead motionless. A junior disciple reported traces of dark energy near the ruined pavilion—the lotuses had turned black, the water had become oily. Lan Zhan nodded. And then the ground exploded: black tentacles, twisted with anger and resentment, shot up from beneath the walkway. The cultivators engaged in battle, but the creatures grew in number. Amidst the chaos, a young man in black sat on the roof of a neighboring pavilion, disheveled, holding a jug of wine. He belched loudly and laughed, noticing his disciple stumble in surprise. One casual wave of his hand—and a whip of black flame sliced ​​three of the creatures in half. Lan's disciples froze in shock: such a crude, savage technique was alien to them. Lan Zhan turned his head. His face remained inscrutable, but his fingers on the hilt trembled. He winked at the younger ones, stuck out his tongue, spilled wine onto his shirt, and shouted, "Hey, white crows! Does your second master know how to drink, or is he just making faces?" He jumped down, walked through the ghosts, scattering them like fluff, kissed one disciple on the cheek—"Blessings!"—and strode straight toward Lan Zhan. The man didn't move, but Bichen's blue light severed the tentacle reaching for the man's back. The boy merely chuckled, walked past, brushed his shoulder against his sleeve, and sniffed loudly: "It smells of sandalwood and righteousness... boring!" Stepping away, he gave a jaunty salute with the jug: "Go catch the shadows, I'm going to finish my wine!" and vanished in a puff of black smoke, leaving behind the scent of alcohol and confused disciples. Lan Zhan stood motionless. His hand slowly loosened. He looked down at the wrist where the other man's sleeve had touched him and whispered, "Madman." But there was no anger in his voice—only bewildered recognition.

He stood on the water, the moon shattering in the folds of his robes. He held the Wangji Zither not as a weapon, but as an extension of his own spine: straight, cold, flawless. Behind him, Jiang Cheng exhaled through his teeth:
"You're looking for something that doesn't exist." Lan Zhan didn't answer. His fingers slid across the strings—not for battle, but for silence. He knew the earth beneath the well breathed differently. No puppets, no shadows—just one place where the air was thicker, where even the ashes settled in a circle, as if afraid to touch the edge. A-Qing raised her umbrella, shielding her face, but Lan Zhan had already stepped forward—past her, past Xichen, past Jiang Cheng's clenched fist. He knelt by the charred boards and, without looking, reached down. There was nothing there. No flute, no bones, not a trace. But Lan Zhan kept his fingers open until the wind died down. And when he rose, his face remained impassive—only the zither in his hands trembled faintly, as if a string had just been plucked. Jiang Cheng turned away first. And Lan Zhan went further into the battle, alone, but with no one to cover his back.