Author's notes:

Firstly, this story will follow the canon and timeline for the novel, rather than the live action. It will be a total of eight chapters: seven main story chapters and one epilogue chapter. Secondly, the content warnings for this story as a whole are: reference to canonical character deaths, depression and expressions of suicidal ideation. There will be fluff and sweet things too, but just know that overall, this is not a happy story.

As Song Lan leaves Yi city as a resurrected, sentient corpse, with two spirit-trapping pouches and an extra sword strapped to his back, he does so without any particular plan of where to go. The only thought thrumming through his mind is that he must go, get away, get as far away from this horrible place as he possibly can. There is too much death inside the city walls, and so much of his own pain and sorrow grieved and bled into its ashen ground, that he cannot stand it a second longer.

He walks for three full days, without stopping for sleep or even a moment of rest. At first, he does not realise how much time passes, and in the end, it is not his body that demands rest, but his mind. As night falls on the third day of constant motion, he staggers to the ground beneath a large tree and leans back against its trunk with a groan as the realisation sinks in.

He is dead.

He died, and his body is still dead, but somehow, he is still here. How many years has it been? For how many years was he controlled by that insane villain Xue Yang, doing his sick bidding? He has no idea, and maybe he should try to find out, but it does not really matter, does it? He is dead. Dead, and alone, and still walking. Still breathing. Still able to hear the wind rustling among the trees and the chirping of night-time birds; still finding solace in the cool breeze on his skin and the soft grass under his fingers. Somehow, he is still here.

But Xingchen is not.

Xingchen.

His heart throbs, like it has once again been pierced, and Song Lan removes one of the pouches from his robes: the one he carries next to his heart. He should probably pay some attention to A-Qing's soul as well, but for now, he needs a moment alone with Xingchen.

He does not open the pouch. The sliver of a soul inside is only a faintly flickering presence, a fragment of a soul broken beyond repair; it would go out in an instant.

Xingchen, he thinks at it, unable to speak the words out loud with the stump of a tongue in his mouth. You must know I… I should never have… but even his thoughts clog up, making it impossible to shape words, and he struggles for several long moments before he surrenders.

Xingchen, he calls in his heart, in his mind. Xingchen. Xingchen. Xingchen.

He cradles the pouch in his hands and against his chest, and if he had breath, if he had tears, he would be crying his heart out, sob and howl the pain out into the night, but there are no tears, no racking breath, only the burning hollow in his chest where Xingchen should be.

The void is preferable to the flickering glimmers of non-void. The void is empty, with no room for anything. The non-void is pain, and loss, and betrayal. If only the void could swallow up the non-void, take it away. Let the emptiness swallow everything; leave room for nothing.

"That was amazing."

The melodic voice rings through the forest as clearly as a bell. It has none of the loudness of an exclamation, only pure, serene delight, and Song Lan turns around towards it so quickly he can feel his back crick with the sudden twist.

"Who's there?" he demands. "Show yourself!"

Before the words have all fully left his lips, a young cultivator in flowing white robes descends from among the treetops, steps down from his swords and catches it in his hand. All his motions are fluid, showing the sort of effortless grace that Song Lan knows comes from years and years of devoted practice.

"I'm sorry" the young man says, "I didn't mean to sneak up on you. I heard about the monsters roaming this part of the forest, but I had no idea another cultivator was already here. Once I saw the glare of your sword, I kept my distance and watched. Your skill with the sword is astonishing."

Song Lan simply stares at the stranger – he is young, probably not even in his twenties, but his behaviour is not that of a disciple at all. He behaves like a master, and he talks. A lot.

Noticing his stunned silence, the other man smiles apologetically and performs a masterful bow, his form perfect.

"Please forgive me, I forget my manners. I am Xiao Xingchen."

Song Lan blinks, and only belatedly returns the bow, correct but far from perfect.

"I am Song Lan, courtesy name Song Zichen, of Baixue Temple."

Xiao Xingchen smiles at him, and it is a smile that could rival the sun.

"Seeing as you have already taken care of the monsters, may I invite you to share dinner with me tonight? I would love to hear about Baixue Temple and your cultivation practices there."

Song Lan finds himself blinking again, taken aback by this straightforward question, the sincere compliments, and that smile.

"I would be happy to" he says, and the sun has no chance at all.

Song Lan stays underneath the tree until the first rays of sunlight filter in through the canopy, still cradling the little pouch in his hands. He can feel the soul inside, so faint it feels nothing like the man he knew. In all fairness, Xingchen was never loud, but always brimming, like there were all these feelings and thoughts bubbling just underneath his skin. Song Lan remembers looking at him with something that was almost jealousy, the ease and comfort with which he seemed to move, right at home in any and all circumstances.

Now, all that is left of that vibrant man is this sliver of a shattered soul.

He stays underneath the tree all through the day as well, his eyes closed against the light, and with the warm caress of sunlight on his skin.

Empty nothingness is preferable to the alternative. Dust, and dust, and dust, and blood. So much blood.

Sharing a meal with Xiao Xingchen is the most pleasant time Song Lan has had in weeks. Or, if he is to be perfectly honest, years. The conversation flows freely between them, one sentence picking up where the other left off, as seamlessly as the silk threads in a fine garment, indistinguishable from one another. Xiao Xingchen asks about Baixue Temple and their practices for cultivation, and about other sects and whether Song Lan has ever visited other sects to learn from them, too, and Song Lan asks about where Xiao Xingchen has travelled and what he thought of those places: Lanling, Yingchuan, but also such faraway places as Anping and Pingzhou.

"They're not that different from any other place" Xiao Xingchen muses. "The people were kind, but cultivators were few and far between, so I had my hands full."

"Why did you leave?" Song Lan asks. He does not intend the question as a reproach, and Xiao Xingchen does not seem to consider it as one.

"I wanted to see other places. There is such a large world out there, and I've seen so little of it."

"It sounds as though you have seen more of it than most people."

"Well…" Xiao Xingchen lowers his gaze for a moment, and Song Lan wonders if perhaps he is embarrassed. "But there is still more of the world to explore, isn't there?"

"Yes" Song Lan agrees, despite the gnawing suspicion that, at least to him, the world has just grown considerably smaller.

It is difficult to get moving again.

Not mechanically – his body still obeys his wishes, if somewhat sluggishly; it feels heavier than it used to – but mentally. Where should he go? Before he died, or at least, before he ever reached Yi city, travelling was easy, because he was either with Xingchen or searching for him. When they were together, the destination never mattered. When they were apart, it was the search that drove Song Lan and kept him wandering day after day for years, always on the lookout for any sign, any trace of gossip about a roaming, blind cultivator dressed in white – and there was nothing.

Now he knows why, and with Xingchen's body incinerated in Yi city and his fractured soul in a pouch, where should he go? Travel the world, he told the cultivators who helped free him and who killed Xue Yang. Exorcise evil with Xingchen.

He tucks the pouch, which he has cradled in his hands all through the past night and day, inside the lapels of his robe, just above his chest, and gets up on his feet.

It does not matter where he goes. He does not need a direction. He just needs to start moving.

The blood is everywhere, but worse is the guilt. Heavy, unshakable, impossible to escape.

"Where will you go tomorrow?" Song Lan surprises himself by asking, as they rise from the table.

"I haven't decided" Xiao Xingchen replies lightly. "Anywhere but back the way I came."

He says it with such ease, not as though he is running away from something, but rather as if he has no obligations, no strings. There is nothing to hold him back.

"Can I come with you?"

The words are out before he has the slightest chance to stop them. Xiao Xingchen blinks at him, no doubt shocked at the blunt request, and Song Lan is ready to sink through the floor.

"I apolo-" he begins, but is cut off.

"Of course" Xiao Xingchen says, and he sounds so delighted, so genuinely pleased, as if there could be no better gift in the world that Song Lan's selfish request. "I would be glad of your company. Unless of course" Xiao Xingchen adds, "there is somewhere you need to go? In which case, perhaps, I can come with you?"

The road is a deserted one, just like the landscape through which it passes. Yi city was already remote, at the end of a closed off valley, and when he left it, Song Lan walked away from the road that had once taken him there. Wherever this overgrown path leads him, it is not to some great city, that is for sure.

He does not mind the lack of civilisation.

He has no need for sleep or food, and to be honest, he is uncertain what to do if, or perhaps rather when, he meets another person. What does he look like to other people? Without a tongue, can he make himself known as… well, not living, but at least sentient, before someone decides to try to cut him down? He is fairly certain that other cultivators will recognise the swords, at least, if not him, but commoners likely will not. And even if they do not turn against him, will he be able to communicate with them?

No, Song Lan does not mind that there are no people around. He dreads when there will be.

The guilt is everywhere. Even in the void, where endless expanses of nothing and nothing and nothing exist, the guilt sneaks in, invisible smoke in non-existence.

They travel towards the northeast, for no other reason than that Xiao Xingchen finds the path pretty, and their conversation starts up right where it left off the night before.

"I would like to spar with you" Xiao Xingchen says. "When we find a good spot."

"We could spar here" Song Lan replies helplessly, like a fool, and Xiao Xingchen laughs.

"Wouldn't we be in the way of other people? No, I want to spar with you properly. Somewhere with enough space."

Song Lan is curious too. He has yet to see Xiao Xingchen use his sword for anything other than flight, but all his movements are fluid and graceful, and there is strength underneath his slender frame, that much is obvious. He carries himself with confidence too, which is not really that strange for a teenager, but Xiao Xingchen's confidence is of a silent nature. He knows himself, Song Lan thinks. Someone who moves like that, looks like that, keeps no secrets from himself.

As they walk side by side on the path, their strides synchronise, until it is as though they walk the same step.

There are no people, but quite a few monsters and a lot of fae. They have a hunger to them, and Song Lan thinks they must be desperate for human flesh to throw themselves over a corpse the way they do. Whenever they appear, he alternates between using Fuxue and Shuanghua to fight them off. Fuxue is his sword, after all, and he would never forgo it entirely, but Shuanghua… Shuanghua's spirit feels broken. It might just be his imagination, but the sword is as familiar to him as his own, and while it unsheathes willingly whenever he reaches for it and does whatever he asks of it, it has none of Fuxue's vibrating eagerness, and its glare is dimmer than he remembers.

Maybe it is because of him: no matter how familiar he is to the sword spirit, he is a fierce corpse, too, and Shuanghua – as Song Lan well knows – is particularly averse to corpses. But if that is the case, Song Lan wonders why it has not sealed itself. Why has it not refused to be used, the way Xingchen refused to let himself be used anymore?

A few weeks into his resumed travels, he begins to bring out both swords each evening to clean them, and as the rag polishes over the patterns of frost on Shuanghua's blade, in his mind he recounts the stories of its glory days. Not so much of the monsters it felled, but of how many times it stayed, or how beautiful its sweeping arc was as it was cut through the air.

Xingchen, he thinks as the moon rises over the desolate landscape, Xingchen, it was not your fault.

The north-eastern path winds its leisurely way through an old forest, where sunlight filters down through the lush canopies and birds chirp. As the sun is close to reaching its highest point, however, the ancient trees give way to a meadow. The grass is high, but the ground is even and dry, and although the road is far from crowded, they would be in no one's way here.

Their gazes meet, and even without asking, he knows that Xiao Xingchen is of the same mind. It is there in the glitter of his eyes, an excitement that mirrors the one in Song Lan's chest. Stepping away from the path they walk out into the meadow, and out of the corner of his eye, Song Lan sees Xiao Xingchen inspecting the ground just as he does himself. As they walk, they walk apart for the first time since leaving the inn that morning, and only stop when they are in the rough centre of the meadow, five or six paces apart.

"Swords or horsetail whisk?" Song Lan asks. "Or both?"

"Swords, I think" Xiao Xingchen replies, putting his whisk away on the ground next to him, and Song Lan mirrors him.

They bow, and the moment Xiao Xingchen straightens his back, his open, smiling expression is replaced by sheer intent.

Neither of them lashes out; each step is calm and composed, as they move around each other in a slow circle. Xiao Xingchen's footwork is exceptional, his balance unerring, and when he lunges, the movement is fluid and sharp. Song Lan parries, and they move another few steps before Song Lan lunges, only to be parried in turn. They exchange blows, trying each other's techniques out, looking for weak spots and openings but without finding any. There are no words, but Song Lan feels Xiao Xingchen's full attention on him as they circle, lunge, and parry with increasing speed. What started out as a polite exchange of forms, like a training exercise, soon becomes an intense back and forth, and the air rings with metallic clangs as their swords clash together. Song Lan has never seen these techniques used before and he cannot get past Xiao Xingchen's defences, but then, Xiao Xingchen cannot get past his, either. As they continue to trade blows, it becomes increasingly clear that neither can get the upper hand over the other, not even when they leave off form and start fighting for real.

Steps are replaced by jumps and leaps, lunges with attacks, and the sounds of their swords are sharp swooshes through the air and the occasional clang of a parry. Song Lan's heart beats excitedly in his chest and his breathing becomes laboured, but still, they do not stop – not until Xiao Xingchen's sword clangs against Song Lan's sword, and he does not move away.

Neither of them moves.

Their chests heave and the colour has risen in Xiao Xingchen's face, and Song Lan is warm and every muscle trembling, but when their gazes meet, they both break into smiles.

"I couldn't land even a single blow!"

"Me either."

"I knew sparring with you would be amazing, but I had no idea it could be like this!"

Xiao Xingchen's voice is full of marvel as he sheathes his sword and picks up his horsetail whisk and leads the way into the shadows for some rest. As they talk through the fight and each other's forms, Song Lan hears his own two words echo in his mind, over and over again.

Me either, Xiao Xingchen. Me either.

The first time he comes upon a village, he avoids it. He cannot face meeting anyone, so he stays out of sight until nightfall, when he takes a circuitous turn round its outskirts to get back on the road again.

The next time he comes upon a village, he is seen. Three children tumble suddenly out of the forest, a tangle of limbs and wild, shrieking giggles, but when they see him, all sounds cease abruptly.

"Daozhang…" The smallest one, possibly only four or five years old, looks up at him with huge eyes, a hand uncertain at their mouth, "you're really dirty."

Song Lan blinks, and looks down. His robes, already grey, are heavy with dust and grime, and his last bath, or even wash, must have been before he even came to Yi city – years and years ago. He is disgusted by himself, but the children appear delighted.

"You must be from very far away" the middle child says sagely. "Because there are no daozhang in Sōngshù Village, I know so."

"Are you really a daozhang?" the oldest child asks, the only one to show the slightest wariness. "You don't look like a daozhang."

Song Lan is pondering how on earth to answer that question without being able to speak, but is interrupted, or saved, depending on how you look at it, by the youngest child running up to him and jumping excitedly in a circle around him.

"Swords, swords!" the child shrieks happily.

"Swords?" the middle child gapes. "Daozhang, you have two swords? Wow, that's so cool!"

"I wanna see, I wanna see!"

"Will you show us?"

It is more noise than Song Lan has heard in years, and although he would rather hurry away (flee, he wants to flee) from their attention and their voices and their icky, grabby little hands, he cannot. He cannot tell them no, he cannot push them away, and he refuses to scare them. So instead, he lets himself be pulled along by three pairs of mucky child hands on his equally mucky clothes, and has no idea how to get away.

"I have never seen anyone use your techniques before" Song Lan says as they are on the road again; both of them still on a high from their sparring, or he would never have dared to be so blunt. "Where do you cultivate?"

"Oh, I don't" Xiao Xingchen says with a shrug.

"You… don't?"

It makes no sense at all. It is clear that Xiao Xingchen is a cultivator, and a skilled one at that. While his techniques may be new to Song Lan, it is clear that they are not accidental but something he has exercised intensely and mastered. His spiritual energy appears to be great, considering his youth, and he moves with strength and grace, no to mention the inarguable fact that he wields a spiritual sword. It is unimaginable that he could be and do all these things, but not be a cultivator.

"I do practice cultivation, of course" Xiao Xingchen says, probably noticing Song Lan's nonplussed expression, "just not at a particular place."

His easy expression does not darken, exactly. That is not what happens at all. But something, something Song Lan wishes he knew what it was, sneaks into his words.

"Then who is your master?"

Surely, he must have a master? Someone must have taught him, wherever that might have happened.

"My master was Baoshan Sanren."

Song Lan stops. A full, dead stop in the middle of the road. For all his heightened senses, Xiao Xingchen does not notice until he has already walked two more steps, when he finally turns around to look at Song Lan.

"Is something the matter?"

"Your master is Baoshan Sanren?"

"Was, but yes?"

"The Baoshan Sanren?"

"…I suppose so?"

Song Lan's mind is reeling. It is as though someone has tilted the axis of the Earth and he is struggling to find the balance to stand straight in an off-kilter world.

There is only one Baoshan Sanren: the enlightened, the immortal Baoshan Sanren. No one would ever dare impersonate her, or indeed any of her legendary line of disciples, only two of whom are known to have ever left her hidden celestial mountain.

In front of Song Lan stands the third.

"How old are you, exactly?" he manages to ask, voice faint and choked all at once.

"…I don't know exactly, around nineteen, why? Ah, Song Zichen, are-"

But Song Lan does not hear the rest of the question. The world is spinning madly around him, and although it is still the middle of the day and the sun is high in the sky, darkness creeps in on the edges of his vision. He stumbles, and his vision fades, and the last thing he knows is strong hands with slender fingers on his shoulders, catching him before he hits the ground.

The parents and elderly grandfather are not quite as excited to see him as the three children are, but once the shouts of "Dad, dad look, a daozhang, and he has swords!" and shocked gasps and polite, worried questions quieten for a moment, Song Lan gets a chance to at least try to communicate. He motions over his closed mouth and uses Fuxue to write in the dust of the road – to renewed excitement in the two youngest children – but the adults shake their heads and offer apologies. None of them can read.

He tries to convey his intent to move on, but they shake their heads again, kindlier this time, although there is wariness in their eyes.

"Certainly not, daozhang. Please stay with us for the night" the old man says. His eyes are beginning to cloud over and his voice is thin and trembling. "My daughter can wash and mend your clothes for you, and my son-in-law will prepare a bed."

Song Lan tries to refuse the offer, shaking his head to say no, no, he does not need any of that – and more than that, he does not want to cause them the inevitable disgust when they must inevitably realise that he is not truly alive – but his protests are overlooked.

"We would be honoured by your stay" the grandfather continues, and with that, the matter is apparently settled.

Song Lan is shown to a small porch and asked to wait while water is brought and prepared. The parents remind the children not to bother their guest, a caution which they promptly ignore as they immediately fire off a storm of questions at him – most of which concern the swords and his horsetail whisk.

"Can we see them?"

"I bet you've killed loads of monsters!"

"Were they large? Did they have scales and fangs and big, scary wings?"

"Yes, and they probably ate little squirts like you, A-Chen!"

"I'm not a squirt!"

To silence the squabble, Song Lan unsheathes Fuxue again. He cannot bear to bring out Shuanghua, but Fuxue can bear the incredulous looks and the sighs and awed wooows as he raises and turns it, lets the sunlight play over the blade.

"I wanna be a daozhang and have a sword, too!" the middle child proclaims.

"But you're a girl" her elder sister says, with just enough scorn to tell even Song Lan that this is a recurring argument between the siblings, if not within the entire family.

The squabble turns into a proper fight, soon broken up by the adults, and Song Lan is relieved when he is shown to where a bath has been prepared for him. Some simple but clean robes are pressed upon him, and when he tries to refuse, the woman shakes her head.

"A daozhang saved my father's life once. This is the least we can do to pay back that debt. Please, allow me to wash and mend your clothes."

Once she has left, Song Lan undresses more carefully than perhaps ever before. Outer robes, inner robes, trousers, it all comes off, and with each layer of clothes, a layer of dust and dirt follows. He cannot bring the spirit-trapping pouches with him into the bath, but he places them and his few other personal objects – remainders of a life he left behind a long, long time ago – on a small table close to the wooden tub. Then, without looking down at his body, he steps into the tub and submerges himself in the water.

He comes to in a half-sitting position, disoriented and annoyed. There is something hard and ridged behind his back – a tree trunk, perhaps? – and in front of him swims Xiao Xingchen's face, its delicately sharp lines smudged with worry.

"There you are" Xiao Xingchen says, relief easing his frown. "How are you feeling?"

"Ridiculous" he mumbles.

He must have fainted. Fainted. It is unheard of.

"There's no need to scowl" Xiao Xingchen says with a gentle smile. "There's only the two of us here."

Song Lan looks at him in silence, as his vision finally clears.

This boy, kneeling at his side with the kindest, gentlest expression on his ethereal face that looks like it has been cut from the finest jade, and whose smile rivals even the sun for radiance. This young man, with his pearl-white robes billowing around him on the ground and whose every movement is smooth and fluent but sharp and precise, who has quite literally stepped down from a celestial mountain and turned his back on the near promise of immortality. This Taoist, who does not use proper honorifics and forgets when to bow but still executes every single one of them in the most perfect form when he remembers. This cultivator, who uses sword techniques Song Lan has never seen before, but with whom he is still evenly matched.

This Xiao Xingchen, who are all of those people, and who walks in step with Song Lan.

"Why would you leave Baoshan Sanren's celestial mountain?" he asks with dry lips.

Xiao Xingchen's cheeks turn the most endearing touch of red, and he lowers his gaze to the ground.

"This is going to sound incredibly naïve…" he says.

"I won't laugh."

Xiao Xingchen looks up again, and there is a pang of recognition in Song Lan's chest when their eyes meet.

"I've never wanted to reach enlightenment." Xiao Xingchen smiles faintly, still blushing, but his voice is nothing but painful sincerity. "I want to save the world."