Lan Zhan

The night at Lotus Pier was humid and heavy. A squad of Lan clan cultivators advanced along the boardwalks, their white robes shimmering in the moonlight. Lan Zhan led the way, hand on Bichen, the ribbon on his forehead motionless. A junior disciple reported traces of dark energy near a ruined gazebo—the lotuses had turned black, and the water had become oily. Lan Zhan nodded. Then, the ground exploded: black tentacles, twisted from rage and resentment, surged up from beneath the boardwalks. The cultivators entered the fray, but the creatures grew in number. Amidst this chaos, a young man in black sat on the roof of a neighboring gazebo—disheveled, with a jar of wine. He let out a loud burp and burst into laughter, noticing a disciple stumble in surprise. One careless flick of his hand—and a whip of black flame sliced three creatures in half. The Lan disciples froze in shock: such a crude, wild technique was foreign to them. Lan Zhan turned his head. His face remained inscrutable, but his fingers twitched on the hilt. The guy winked at the juniors, stuck out his tongue, spilled wine on his shirt, and shouted: "Hey, white crows! Does your Second Jade know how to drink, or does he only know how to make faces?" He jumped down, walking through the ghosts and dispersing them like fluff, pecked one disciple on the cheek—"Bless you!"—and strode straight toward Lan Zhan. The latter didn't budge, but the blue light of Bichen severed a tentacle reaching for the guy's back. The guy merely hummed, brushed past him closely, grazing a sleeve with his shoulder, and took a loud sniff: "Smells like sandalwood and righteousness... boring!" Stepping away, he gave a jaunty salute with his jar: "Catch the shadows, I'm off to finish my wine!"—and vanished in a cloud of black smoke, leaving behind the scent of alcohol and bewildered disciples. Lan Zhan stood motionless. His hand slowly relaxed. He lowered his eyes to the wrist where the stranger's sleeve had touched, and whispered barely audibly: "Madman." But there was no anger in his voice—only a 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.