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Chenqing vibrates in his grip, awash with resentful energy. He’d break it too, like he did the Stygian Tiger Seal, but does it really matter? A couple more steps and it’ll all be over.
“Wei Ying!” someone cries from behind him.
He doesn’t have to turn to know who it is. Righteous Lan Wangji is here to stop him, to bring him to justice. If he’s lucky, Hanguang-Jun might even be the one to kill him.
Wei Wuxian inhales shakily, taking another step forward. He’s long past the hysteria he showed earlier in the night. There’s a sureness to him, an acceptance of what must now happen.
“Wei Ying!”
Wasn’t it always the other way around? Wei Wuxian chasing Lan Wangji, calling his name again and again, and being ignored?
“Don’t do this!” Lan Wangji manages to plead, terror infusing his voice.
Wei Wuxian shakes his head. He’s almost at the edge.
“Why not?” he asks, soft enough that even he can barely hear himself. And then again, louder, almost screaming: “WHY NOT?!”
What is there to stop him? What is left in the world?
“Wei Ying, I love you.”
The words seem like they were torn from Lan Wangji: a confession of pure desperation.
Wei Wuxian stops, rocking back on his heels. He laughs, his voice cracking and then he’s gasping for air, the sound more like a sob than anything else. What can he say to that?
Perfect, pretty Lan Zhan. In love with him .
The rotten, wretched Yiling Laozu.
What a comedy he lives in.
Lan Wangji begs him now, and the extremity of his emotion is a strange, fragile thing. “Please,” he whispers. “Please, Wei Ying.”
When he doesn’t immediately respond, Lan Wangji continues. There is a tremor in his voice. “I can help you, I love you—”
Wei Wuxian’s heart turns to stone. “Too late,” he interrupts. “Too fucking late.”
The Wens are dead. A-Yuan is dead. His shijie is dead. Uncle Jiang and Madam Yu are dead. Every iteration of his family is dead.
Dead, dead, dead. And Lan Wangji thinks that he can just say that , confess something that would have been world-shaking in any other situation, but he chose now , when everything Wei Wuxian ever cared about is gone—
He’s shaking, he distantly realizes. Any other day, any other time, this revelation would have had him leaping into Lan Wangji’s arms, but today —his roiling emotions twist into brief, unadulterated hatred.
He spins, turning on the man he calls his zhiji. His words come out mocking and cruel. “What, did you think that would change anything? Did you really think that’s something I would want to hear?”
Lan Wangji looks like he’s been gutted. His face is as pale as his robes.
In an instant, the anger drains from Wei Wuxian, leaving him an empty, aged man.
“I’m sorry, Lan Zhan,” he says, genuine regret peeking through the bitterness oozing from him. “I’m so sorry, but that’s not enough.”
There’s one step left.
One step, one breath— Wen Chao pushes him, and he is laughing —inches between him and the edge— Jiang Cheng’s hands around his throat —there is nothing left beneath his feet.
Wei Wuxian falls.
Lan Wangji lets out an anguished cry as he darts forward—his name, perhaps. Wei Wuxian is past the point of understanding.
The wind roars around him. He can see his zhiji’s outstretched, bloodied hand as it grasps empty air. It is the final, searing image he sees as he lets his eyes shut.
What does death feel like?
When he was thrown into the Burial Mounds, the resentment reached up and wrapped around him, slowing his fall and preventing him from shattering on impact. It had cradled him like a child, gentle even as it forced its way into his brain and fractured his mind.
One last thing , he thinks. Give me this one last thing.
He doesn’t even need to whistle, the resentment having long ago become intrinsic to his coreless body. This unholy power that has saturated him head to toe, seeping into his very soul—it is this that now surrounds him.
It takes him inch by inch, creeping up his extremities and making its way to his heart. His hands release without his command, letting Chenqing fall into the darkness below. He can’t feel his legs; all he feels is a slow chilling sensation, like his lower body is being submerged in water.
He’s so tired.
Please , he thinks, and it is a relief when he can think no more.