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Zhuo Yichen feels the tug on the Yunguang Sword, as Zhu Yan's hand darts forward with impossible speed to wrap around the blade and drag it tip-first into his own heart.
He tenses, weight already shifting backward to try and counter Zhu Yan's demonic strength—Yunguang still buzzing with the demonic qi that Zhu Yan had mockingly infused down its length during their argument—but before he can do more than think the blade meets flesh.
Zhu Yan spits blood, his expression burning with the mad intensity that's characterized him since he'd burst into the Demon Hunting Bureau; he opens his mouth to speak, doubtless to say something else inflammatory and prod the situation further out of Zhuo Yichen's control, but instead sucks in a pained gasp as Yunguang pulses with light.
The fading wisps of Zhu Yan's demonic qi and Zhuo Yichen's own qi light the blade with an almost blinding brilliance, the sword still clenched in Zhuo Yichen's hand; the tip still stuck fast in Zhu Yan's heart, his own hand clenched around the dragon-bone steel hard enough to slice into the meat of his palm and bloody his fingers.
Yunguang pulses again, the red of demonic qi and the unmistakable blue qi of the Bingyi Clan blending into a pure white that engulfs the both of them spreading from from the center of the blade and flowing up Zhuo Yichen's arm and into Zhu Yan's chest.
Time seems to stop, the rising light blinding both of them to everything around them; blotting out the surrounding courtyard of the Demon Hunting Bureau and bringing them into what seems almost like a world of their own.
Distantly Zhuo Yichen can hear Fan Ying's raised voice, can hear the shouting of other members of the Demon Hunting Bureau as they respond, but as the light blooms ever-brighter around himself and Zhu Yan his ears start to ring with the mounting power pouring from Yunguang.
Zhu Yan's flinty expression has slacked into a blank shock that's almost more worrisome than Yunguang's sudden awakening; Zhuo Yichen able to recognize how the Great Demon had goaded him along while keeping complete control of their interaction ever since he'd stepped foot in the Demon Hunting Bureau.
There's a sound like glass shattering—like ice shattering—high crystalline chimes thundering against each other in a cacophony of nearly deafening noise. A freezing chill blooming forth from the brilliantly glowing crystal in Yunguang's pommel.
In the air above Yunguang another glowing crystal appears, and Zhuo Yichen has but a few stunned moments to recognize it as the Five Colored Stone from his family's legends before it plummets unceremoniously downward onto Yunguang's blade and shatters with a final high chime; fracturing into a thousand glowing many-colored shards that explode outward from where the stone meets the blade, burning off into a frigid blast of demonic qi that buffets Zhuo Yichen and Zhu Yan where they stand—still connected hand to heart by Yunguang's length.
Zhuo Yichen sees Zhu Yan's eyes widen, his mouth parting to gasp out what might be a warning but what only sounds as a pained wheeze and another spill of red, before he sees the burning droplet that had been contained in the Five Colored Stone hanging suspended for a moment where the crystal had been before it hits him.
The power radiating from Yunguang reaches a crescendo, icy demonic qi flaring sharply from Yunguang until Zhuo Yichen feels an answering flare rise sharply from somewhere behind his sternum.
In response, Zhu Yan's own demonic qi—held tightly in control until now, with self-restraint that Zhuo Yichen hadn't appreciated much less considered—flares as well, a wall of heat like a blast furnace meeting and countering the freezing cold that bloomed around Zhuo Yichen.
Zhuo Yichen feels like he's choking, the qi flowing through his meridians starting to freeze and turn to ice, Yunguang cold in his hand; and yet he's somehow able to feel the heat of Zhu Yan's blood on the blade. An unspeakable horror coursing through him as he stares down the length of the blade as it pierces Zhu Yan's heart—when all he'd thought he'd wanted until now was to achieve his revenge—that's so intense it leaves him lightheaded.
As his vision starts to shutter and grow dark, the last sight Zhuo Yichen has is of Zhu Yan; his face pale, his mouth bloody, and the last shimmers of icy demonic qi fluttering around him like diamond dust—like starlight.
He drops into unconsciousness like a stone, Yunguang still held firmly in his hand, finally pulling free of Zhu Yan's chest as he topples to the side.
Wen Xiao had expected the Demon Hunting Bureau to still be as she left it when she finally limped back through the doors in the late afternoon, carrying her umbrella and favoring the wound in her shoulder.
To pass through the doors and see the courtyard looking as though a storm had passed through is a surprise. She steps over the broken roof tiles and large chunks of unseasonable ice littering the ground, seeing the damage to the buildings spreading out from an obvious point on the path ahead of her.
Shards of ice and crystal spread in a radius around a patch of ground still rimed with frost and black ice despite the drip of water from the slowly melting pieces she'd passed by already. Even stepping around the spot gives her a chill from the biting cold still lingering there.
The Demon Hunting Bureau is normally quiet; still reduced from its former prestige despite Zhuo Yichen and her godfather's best efforts to petition for its restoration.
Now, it's deathly still. Not even the distant sounds of their few recruits training or the scribes and secretaries working at administrative tasks filter into the hall.
Wen Xiao carefully sets her umbrella down and draws her knife, cautiously making her way deeper into the Bureau in search of anyone who could tell her what had happened.
It's not until she reaches the apothecary and sickrooms that she finds another person: her godfather, standing in the doorway and looking in at the crush of doctors and assistants crowded around a patient bed. She steps up next to Fan Ying, reaching out to touch his arm; he startles slightly, turning toward her enough that she can see his drawn and tear-stained face, the raw fear reflected in his eyes.
He catches her hand between his, squeezing it gently, before his eyes catch the smear of blood over her shoulder and somehow his expression twists even further into grief. He opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again, tucking Wen Xiao's hand into the crook of his arm before striding forward into the crowded surgery to get the attention of one of the assistants waiting poised outside the circle of physicians crowded around the room's bed.
She sits, allows her shoulder to be tended to. Fan Ying still can't summon any words for her, a desolation settling onto his face that makes her gut clench. None of the physicians even spare her a glance, focused as they are on whoever they're treating.
Every once in a while the throng breaks enough for her to see a flash of brocaded fabric laying in a pile on the bed.
Slowly, Wen Xiao begins to understand that pile of brocaded fabric as a human figure: physicians moving to and fro; sleeves flicked out of the way or tied back; assistants moving back and forth.
A physician steps away long enough for her to catch sight of a long fall of fine black hair, woven with a chain of bells; a panel of fabric covered in familiar embroidery; a momentary flash of a man's face in profile, his robes parted to bare his chest and neck revealing spreading lines of icy blue.
Wen Xiao startles forward, pulling away from the apothecary spreading medicine on her wound to push her way through the crowd surrounding Zhuo Yichen.
He's laid out on a narrow cot; his shoulders, neck, and chest bristling with needles put through various acupressure points. From this distance, the icy lines spreading down his neck to his collarbones have the delicate quality of bruise-blue veins showing through thin skin.
"What happened?" Wen Xiao asks, finally finding her voice in her shock.
She wants to reach out and trace her fingers over the lines, but there's a strange energy emanating from Zhuo Yichen that she doesn't recognize; the idea of propriety keeping her from touching his skin a distant consideration in his mind.
"We're not sure," Fan Ying answers, his voice raspy from his tears, "Da Yao Zhu Yan came to the Bureau with a proposal, but he antagonized Zhuo-Daren into stabbing him with the Yunguang sword, and then…"
He trails off, helplessly, unable to explain further what had happened.
"We've done what we can to stabilize his energy," a doctor says from behind Wen Xiao, her pulse pounding in her ears so loudly she can't even recognize their voice, "but his meridians are nearly collapsed under the strain, and his internal force is raging without direction."
"Zhu Yan came here?" Wen Xiao asks, "Where is he now?"
The Demon Hunting Bureau's cells were mostly built to contain the type of minor demon that usually caused trouble in the Human realm.
Little Deceptive Beasts like the one Wen Xiao failed to save. Minor spirits who came and caused mischief either inadvertently or on purpose.
Seeing Zhu Yan sitting in the most strongly reinforced cell they have, his luxuriously expensive robes draped carelessly over the stone bench in the center, is almost ludicrous enough to make Wen Xiao laugh.
The memories of her time in the Wilderness itch in the back of her mind at the sight of him: his hair a river falling over one of his shoulders and splaying over the train of his robes, the shimmering streaks of silver highlighting the length of it; the bone hairpin and hanging ornaments; the tilt of his head as he studies her through the bars all so achingly familiar that for a moment she's buffeted with the sense memory of blistering sun on raw stone and the brine-on-rot smell of the sea.
For a long moment neither of them speaks, simply staring across the room at each other.
Wen Xiao's memories of the end of her time in the Wilderness are chaotic at best, prone to surfacing in her nightmares and then fading back into a gauzy impermanence that leaves her with only the faintest impressions of what occurred. Now, though, with Zhu Yan sitting before her, and all her memories of the masked Great Demon who'd accompanied her Master, the shadowed, hazy figure in her memories resolves suddenly into sharp, clear relief.
She's aware of the nervous guards standing behind her, of the apparent devastation Zhu Yan's visit to the Demon Hunting Bureau had caused—his first having killed Zhuo Yichen's father and brother, his second, now, having apparently crippled Zhuo Yichen's cultivation—but it still takes her a concerted effort of will to not throw open the doors of Zhu Yan's cell and fling herself at him. To see if his hair still carried the same temple-incense smell it did when he carried her out of the Wilderness and brought her to the Bureau—his true second visit, she supposed, standing outside the gates and watching her walk through them, when mere days before he'd stormed through the Kunlun Gate and slaughtered the Demon Hunting Bureau's strongest with ease—to see if his shoulders were still as strong as when she'd rested her head on them.
"Zhu Yan," she says, speaking his name into the stifling silence, "What happened?"
Wen Xiao watches the minute expressions that flicker across his face, the spark that comes into his eyes as she speaks his name followed by the tightening of his expression as she asks for his explanation.
"I don't know," Zhu Yan says, something ancient and serious in his face.
She remembers his playfulness, before, even with the mask hiding his face she remembers his gentle teasing and engaging humor—and underneath the almost desolate loneliness that even as a young girl she'd sensed that she and her Master's company had only barely eased—to see him so gravely serious now only heightens the gnawing tension that's been eating at her since she left Zhuo Yichen's sickroom.
Zhu Yan stands, pacing to the edge of his cell to stand directly before the bars.
Wen Xiao steps forward as well, meeting him on the other side.
"Bing Yi left behind a way for his descendants to return to their demonic heritage," Zhu Yan says, his tone thoughtful but his words whisper soft, meant for Wen Xiao's ears only, "but I can't understand why Zhuo-Daren would suddenly be subjected to it now of all times."
"Return to their demonic heritage?" Wen Xiao echoes, the disbelief in her voice turning the words into a question.
For a moment, the mischievous sparkle she'd always imagined was there under the mask gleams in Zhu Yan's eyes, "Bing Yi was a demon, after all," he says, the slightest edge of teasing in his voice, "even after he asked the Nuwa Goddess to make him a human, she couldn't stand to see his power be dispersed in such a way, and saved the last drop of his demonic blood."
"My godfather says he saw the Five Colored Stone appear between the two of you, and then shatter on the Yunguang sword," Wen Xiao says, feeling her way along the deduction as the pieces began to come together.
"The Bingyi Clan's Five Colored Stone was the relic created by the Nuwa Goddess, containing Bing Yi's last demonic blood and the potential to awaken the demonic nature of his descendants," Zhu Yan supplies, giving her an intent look, "but that potential was a choice they were offered, and Zhuo-Daren certainly doesn't seem the sort to willingly become a demon."
There's a twist of irony in his words, a bitterness he's unable to keep out of his voice; both of them knowing why Zhuo Yichen dislikes demons so much, and who is to blame.
"The doctors say they've done what they can for him," Wen Xiao admits, hands clenching around the fabric of her sleeves, "all we can do is wait for him to wake up."
Zhu Yan doesn't reply to this, a grimace twisting his face as he places a hand over his chest—the bloodstain on his robes showing this is where the Yunguang sword had pierced his heart—a flare of red and black demonic energy rising around his hand.
"What is it?" Wen Xiao asks, watching the pulse and flare of his power as he turns partly away from her.
"Something strange," Zhu Yan admits, breathless from the sudden sear of pain, "Zhuo-Daren hasn't mastered the Yunguang sword to the extent he should be able to injure me like this, and yet."
"You haven't healed by now," Wen Xiao says, finishing the thought.
"There's something more at work here," Zhu Yan says, "I feel…"
He trails off again, and this time Wen Xiao can't guess at what he means to say.
"Will you help?" She asks instead, meeting Zhu Yan's eyes; holding his gaze and feeling for a moment the weight of his true age.
Zhu Yan smiles, a crooked little thing that twists his mouth with real amusement, "Did you know," he says, "that's what I came here to offer?"
At first all he can see is bare stone and black water, spreading in all direction under a dark and empty sky.
Zhuo Yichen stands on a rocky outcropping that rises a few scant inches above the water.
He doesn't know where he is, or how he's come to be here.
Trying to cast his thoughts back through his memory offers nothing but blinding light and a gnawing pain in his chest.
A light flares in the distance, a figure clad all in grey and silver dancing across the surface of the water with sword drawn.
A familiar sword. Yunguang glowing brilliantly, fully awakened more powerful than Zhuo Yichen has ever managed to make it.
He studies the figure as it flows through sword forms, techniques that he's seen sketches of in the family archives but not yet managed to accomplish himself in his lonely attempt to rebuild the Bingyi Clan's Yunguang style with only the notes and manuals of long-dead Masters.
The man moves as though Yunguang is merely an extension of his will, as though the sword comes so naturally to his hand that everything else is an afterthought. He wears a mask, white porcelain traced with blue lines, and his steel-grey hair flares and sweeps out behind him with each leap and lunge.
Zhuo Yichen wants to call out to him, but he can't find his voice. He stands mesmerized by the grace and poise of the swordsman.
There's a feeling of grief welling up in him as he watches, tears gathering in his eyes as he struggles to untangle his emotions; the feeling too sudden and strong to be only his own.
The feeling of empathy with the swordsman grows as the sequence of sword forms comes to an end with one final flourish, the trajectory of the last lunge carrying him across the water and toward the outcrop of rock Zhuo Yichen stands on.
For a moment they stand motionless, Yunguang's glow dimming and then finally extinguishing when the swordsman sheathes it.
The swordsman reaches up to remove his mask, pulling it away from his face in a slow but deliberate motion.
Zhuo Yichen stares into a face that is his own, but not.
"We've found him," the swordsman says, face as intently serious as Zhuo Yichen knows his own becomes when he's focused entirely on something.
"Who?" Zhuo Yichen can't help but ask in response, the resonance between himself and this stranger increasing from moment to moment; the choking, drowning grief shared between the two of them pieced through with a sharp, painful hope.
"Ying Long," the swordsman replies.
He's a demon, Zhuo Yichen can see; the tracery of icy marks on his throat and well-kept horns, the icy light of his eyes, the intensity of his aura.
He's a demon, but he wears Zhuo Yichen's face and wields Yunguang as though it was made for him.
"Bing Yi?" Zhuo Yichen asks, his certainty growing as he says the name.
"I accepted the Nuwa Goddess' offer to save my demonic power when she turned me into a human," Bing Yi—his great ancestor, who was worshiped as a god for centuries after he'd slain the supposedly mad demon Ying Long—explains, "but out of selfishness, in hope that one day I would reincarnate but be able to regain my memories to find him."
The black water surrounding them ripples, suddenly, disturbances in the water sending it splashing over the rock Zhuo Yichen stands on.
Bing Yi's face is wretched with grief as he looks out over the water towards the source of the disturbance, Zhuo Yichen's gaze following his.
The Bing Yi of memory stands holding Yunguang outstretched, his face wet with tears as he points the tip of the blade towards another man's heart.
Zhuo Yichen can't see his face, only Bing Yi's, but he can feel the aura of power surrounding him. Not merely the intensity of it, but an almost empathetic bleed of impressions; of playfulness and curiosity, of loyalty and deep generosity, of boundless love.
He feels Bing Yi's emotions as his own, now, feels the anguish as he knows he needs to make the blow but finds himself utterly unable to strike.
The second man reaches out and grasps Yunguang's blade, pulling it forward into his own heart, and Zhuo Yichen is suddenly standing in Bing Yi's place in the memory; looking down the length of Yunguang's blade as it pierces the man's heart.
The man's hair is black as night, his robes silver and white, his demonic markings a black crown on his brow and an almost tantalizing line down his throat, but Zhuo Yichen knows that face.
Ying Long's expression is peaceful, his smile warm even as blood pours down his chin.
He blinks and Zhu Yan stands before him instead, his hand around Yunguang's blade just as Ying Long's had been, his expression the same, blood flowing down his chin as he looks at Zhuo Yichen with devastatingly soft eyes.
Bing Yi's grief crashes over him like a frozen wave, his anguish steals the breath from his lungs and leaves him choking and gasping for air.
The empathy between them reaches completion, memory after memory welling up in Zhuo Yichen's mind: Bing Yi's life, the memories fractured and turned to shards by the eons of time he'd forced himself to endure, to cross just for the chance at finding a descendant of his who might also be his reincarnate self, but the most intelligible and intact all centered around Ying Long.
"You're certain?" Zhuo Yichen can't help but ask, buffeted by the intensity of Bing Yi's emotions.
"I would know him in any life," Bing Yi says, speaking from their reflection in the water around them, his voice beginning to fade.
Zhuo Yichen feels the peace beginning to overtake him, the tiny fragment of Bing Yi's soul cast forward into the flow of time to carry these memories finally returning to its place within the whole; the whole that had become Zhuo Yichen's soul, finally completed and soothed by Bing Yi's dying obsession having nearly been fulfilled.
"Go to the sacred grounds," Bing Yi's fading reflection whispers, "take him with you."
Zhuo Yichen watches as Ying Long collapses backward, sliding from Yunguang's blade to lie still in the water.
His expression is peaceful, even in death, and the shimmering waves of silver that rise from his body swirl up and away into the night sky; each mote of light rising to become a flickering star, the final wash of silver unveiling the moon and casting the world of Bing Yi's memories in a pale reflection of Ying Long's radiance.
"Don't lose him again," Bing Yi's voice is barely audible, a susurrus of flowing water as the last echo of his spiritual cognition is subsumed into Zhuo Yichen's own.
Zhao Yuanzhou is released from his cell and escorted by nervous guards to a guest room in the Demon Hunting Bureau.
It feels almost typical, the way things had begun spiraling out of control almost as soon as he'd arrived.
Wen Xiao and Fan Ying both stand waiting for him, offering him respectful greetings and welcoming him as a guest.
He can sense Fan Ying's nerves, the frissons of malicious energy that arise from human stress and fear hang in a pall over the whole of the Demon Hunting Bureau; the little wisps of malicious energy barely felt as he absorbs them, the power folding into the great reservoir of the vessel he carries within himself like a trickling stream feeding in to the ocean.
Wen Xiao is calm, her confidence offsetting her concern for Zhuo Yichen.
Fan Ying takes the revelation of Bing Yi's nature with stoic acceptance, asking questions that truly mark the resemblance between himself and his goddaughter, regardless of their lack of true relation.
"We won't be able to go through with your proposal," Fan Ying says, as their discussion moves from what had happened to Zhuo Yichen to the Demon Hunting Bureau itself, "If Zhuo-Daren has truly become a demon, we'll need to tread even more carefully with Chongwu Camp's current influence, even if the Prime Minister wishes to support us."
Wen Xiao nods, agreeing, "The notoriety of having captured Da Yao Zhu Yan will bring us scrutiny as well, even if it might have helped the Demon Hunting Bureau to regain some favor it will certainly harm Xiao Zhuo now."
"Xiao Zhuo?" Zhao Yuanzhou echoes, charmed by the nickname.
Wen Xiao narrows her eyes at him, but can't hide the amusement in her expression.
"You're right, though," Zhao Yuanzhou agrees, sighing as the moment of lightness passes, "It will be difficult enough to stabilize him."
"Can you really do that?" Wen Xiao asks, soft hope shining on her face, her play-acted annoyance evaporating away.
"I will need to see him," Zhao Yuanzhou says, considering, "the Five Colored Stone held a drop of Bing Yi's blood, but not a demonic core, and unless Xiao Zhuo-Daren can cultivate one his demonic energy will eventually disperse and destroy him."
A grim silence falls, and Zhao Yuanzhou does nothing to ease it when he continues speaking.
"There's still the case of the Bride killings," Zhao Yuanzhou says, thinking of Ran Yi's situation and the Qi household, "I did mean what I said in my letter, but that includes addressing this case."
Wen Xiao nods decisively, "Ignoring the case would be equally suspicious, with Xiao Zhuo's continued petitions to revive the Bureau fully," she says, "this is still our chance to win some influence away from Chongwu Camp, even if we won't have as full a mandate as we would have with the King's recognition of our capturing you."
Fan Ying seems to come back to himself as they turn from discussing Zhuo Yichen to the Demon Hunting Bureau's current political situation, the despair in his face easing as his mind turned to the more directly resolvable problems facing them, "When news gets out that Zhuo-Daren has fallen ill things will become more difficult for us," he says, "Zhuo Yichen's reputation has kept the Bureau afloat even with Chongwu Camp's current level of influence."
Zhao Yuanzhou says nothing, contemplating the issue while studying Wen Xiao and Fan Ying as they discuss the various administrative and political moves the Bureau would need to prepare for.
"We will need to remove Xiao Zhuo-Daren from Tiandu," Zhao Yuanzhao says, as the thought occurs to him.
Fan Ying sighs, "It would be for the best," he says, "especially if the rumor starts to spread that Zhuo-Daren has become a demon."
"We still need to gather the advance team for the Bride case as well," Wen Xiao says, a thoughtful gleam in her eyes, "In fact," she sits up, turning toward Fan Ying, "We can use that as an excuse for Xiao Zhuo falling out of the public eye for a time, gathering the advance team and investigating the case."
"It could excuse his absence from Tiandu for a long enough," Fan Ying agrees, "but how long?"
Wen Xiao and Fan Ying turn to Zhao Yuanzhou, and they finally come to the crux of the issue.
"I need to see him," Zhao Yuanzhou says, "to know."
Fan Ying is more obvious with his displeasure, his face creasing with worry.
Wen Xiao's expression is more guarded, neutral, but there's concern as well.
Neither of them want to let him near Zhuo Yichen, after their disastrous meeting, but lacking any other option they finally lead Zhao Yuanzhou to the sickroom.
Zhuo Yichen is dreaming, somehow.
He hasn't had a dream in ten years, but he's dreaming now.
Bing Yi's memories spool through his sleeping mind. Like a worn and ancient ribbon there's places where they've faded to nearly nothing, and places where the embroidery and embellishment has been preserved and remains like new.
The only grace Zhuo Yichen is given is that despite Bing Yi's millennia of life the majority of his memories have faded into nothingness, the equally long millennia of his waiting for the criteria of his reunion with his reincarnate self having worn his recollections down to only those he held most dear.
It's almost ironic, that Zhuo Yichen's youthful night terrors had centered around becoming a demon. He can't help but think that perhaps even then, he'd had some awareness of his reincarnation; that last sliver of Bing Yi's soul missing from his own granting a premonition of what was to come, of his own past life.
He barely remembers what it's like to dream, nor the hazy certainty of dream logic, but it feels like the correct conclusion.
Bing Yi's remaining memories are painfully vivid, when they turn from worn and nearly-forgotten to real true recollection.
He lives Bing Yi's role in each one, looking down at hands that both are and aren't his own; catching a reflection that is his perfect likeness and is not himself at all.
Ying Long warm in his arms, dressed only in a thin inner robe. His hair loose and usual jewelry gone, and somehow even on the edge of sleep he's the most beautiful thing Bing Yi has ever seen. He turns, lifting his head from Bing Yi's shoulder, and his eyes are soft and warm and inviting, a smile pulling at his lips. He says something that Bing Yi can't remember, the words lost to the eons but not the weight of his body pressed in a long line against Bing Yi's own, not the adoration on his face at whatever Bing Yi says to him in reply.
Ying Long worn and wearied, his robes torn and bloodied, his expression cold. He holds a sword, and dances forward to strike down the enemy he's fighting, lunging past Bing Yi to land the blow and stop his opponent from taking Bing Yi by surprise. They fight together as one, back to back, until the battle is done and they emerge victorious; victorious but tired, both of them, aching from the long war. But Bing Yi holds the furious expression on Ying Long's face in his heart, as he'd flashed across the field to guard Bing Yi's back.
Ying Long flushed with wine, lips reddened from kisses, and Bing Yi can taste the wine in his mouth as he pushes his own cup aside to drink from Ying Long's lips again.
Ying Long holding the head of his opponent in one hand and his bloodied sword in the other, holding his prize up to cow the rest of their enemies into surrender.
Ying Long flying through a cloudy sky in his true form, the sinuous length of him gleaming with obsidian scales. His horns are a flash of silver almost blinding as they catch the light when he corkscrews suddenly towards Bing Yi, beautiful and powerful; darting close to Bing Yi and then darting away in an obvious invitation to play, the two of them dancing across the sky.
Ying Long spread out in his bed, Bing Yi's mouth following the demonic marking running down his throat, his head tipped back to bare his neck. The trust still astounds him, sends Bing Yi shivering as he traces his way downward with his lips brushing such delicate, vulnerable skin.
Ying Long blazing like a star, demonic qi in shades of black and red shot through with silver billowing around him as he uses his power to bend the world around them to his will.
Ying Long laying in his dragon form, spread on his side over bare stone. He's wounded, deep gouges carved in his sides, and Bing Yi's hands are bloody and his eyes are blurry with tears as he turns to look down at the pile of bloodied dragon bone he's torn from Ying Long's body. There's a knife in his hands, something buzzing with power enough to make his palms itch, and he wants to drop it, wants to toss it as far away from himself as he can, but he and Ying Long agreed on this, so he forces himself to keep going. To grab the first of Ying Long's beautiful silver horns and saw at its base, shearing away the silvered dragon-steel at the vulnerable place it erupted from Ying Long's skull. Ying Long can't help but thrash in pain, panting heavy gusts of air that buffet Bing Yi's human form, his lips parting to show where Bing Yi had torn fangs from his mouth. Bing Yi saws off Ying Long's other horn, tossing it aside and dropping the knife when Ying Long abruptly reverts to his own human form; blood dripping from his mouth, and pained tears flowing from his eyes.
Ying Long wearing heavy layers, wrapped up despite the heat of the forge-fires, exhaustion graven deep into his face, as together they create the Yunguang sword. Bing Yi's concern is almost overwhelming, his awareness that Ying Long has weakened himself greatly to give Bing Yi this gift an almost physical weight on his heart. He won't let Bing Yi tend to his wounds, but Bing Yi can still smell blood on him; still finds bloodied bandages, bloodied handkerchiefs that Ying Long tries to hide his coughing in. The Yunguang sword is magnificent, but Bing Yi looks at it and can barely feel grateful through the grief of knowing Ying Long had crippled his cultivation to give it to him.
Ying Long sitting with him on the shore of a nighttime sea, the sky black and starless and empty. He looks peaceful, but Bing Yi can read the exhaustion he still carries; knows him well enough to read each hesitation and flinch as he moves and understand that Ying Long's broken bones haven't healed. He hasn't changed into his demonic form since Bing Yi butchered him. He's asking Bing Yi to kill him, to sacrifice him to relight the stars and moon and save the world from darkness. Bing Yi can't say no to him, but he doesn't want to say yes.
Ying Long standing, with Yunguang through his heart, and Bing Yi's heart breaks as well. He feels grief and desperation in equal measure, as he grasps at a split-second chance to not lose him entirely.
Bing Yi decades later, standing before a shrine. It's small but obviously well kept, Ying Long's name on the sole memorial tablet. There's a jar of wine, some poured out into a cup already, with fruit and flowers that he knows—between one thought and the next, in this ancient memory—were Ying Long's favorites. His hands are gnarled and worn, his senses dimmed and dulled; Bing Yi is human, and knows he is near death. Before Ying Long's memorial tablet, the centerpiece among the offerings, is the Five Colored Stone the Nuwa Goddess had gifted him. Carefully, his hands shaking with age, Bing Yi pulls on the last lingering essence of his demonic power still held in Yunguang, the blade alighting with the icy blue of his former demonic qi and then slowly going dim and dormant as the energy transfers into the Five Colored Stone. It's an effort of will, spending the last of his human life force to do what he's planned, but he cannot inflict what he has upon Ying Long without being willing to subject himself to the same.
Bing Yi collapses to his knees when the transfer is done, the Five Colored Stone glowing briefly before falling dormant as well. He sheathes Yunguang, holding it to his chest for a long moment, this last relic of Ying Long, before he carefully places it on the shrine beside the Five Colored Stone. Clouds part, and the sky is suddenly clear and full of endless stars, the full moon illuminating the snowy ground. For a long moment Bing Yi simply breathes, staring up at the stars until his eyes slowly fall shut, and his heart stills in his chest.
Zhuo Yichen wakes as Bing Yi's heart beats its last, his eyes fluttering open as he startles upright.
The first thing he sees is Zhu Yan, leaning back and away from him, hand outstretched as if to touch him.
Wen Xiao is there too, and Fan Ying; the three of them sitting at the bedside of the narrow sickroom cot he'd been laid upon.
Zhu Yan moves, starting to draw his hand back, but Zhuo Yichen, still heartsick with Bing Yi's memories, reaches forward and grabs his hand; refusing to let him retreat.
He feels his internal force flare within him, his qi trying to circulate through his meridians but only managing to twist and writhe within his dantians without a core to anchor it.
"Xiao Zhuo!" Wen Xiao exclaims, as he breaks into a coughing fit, still refusing to let go of Zhu Yan's hand, but able to taste blood in his mouth.
"Don't leave," he manages to gasp out, the haze of Bing Yi's memories still clouding his senses, staring into Ying Long's beloved face despite knowing that Zhu Yan isn't him.
He feels Wen Xiao's hands on his shoulders, helping support him as he coughs again, and the dull itch of needles stuck through his accupoints; obviously trying to help stabilize his qi.
"Zhuo-Daren," Fan Ying says, "Do you remember what happened?"
Zhuo Yichen can't help the rasping laugh that escapes him, as though not remembering could possibly be his problem right now, but he understands how strange it must seem, how worried they must have been; and then to see him finally awaken and reach first for Zhu Yan.
Zhu Yan, whom he'd sworn to kill, what felt like a lifetime ago, and whose hand he still held, now, clinging tightly.
He glances at Zhu Yan's face, relieved to finally be able to see him without Ying Long overlaid, without Bing Yi's surging emotions, and finds his eyes soft; a bemused smile playing on his lips.
Zhuo Yichen isn't sure what he'd expected of the Great Demon, something more like the deliberate provocations of their first meeting, but looking at him now he feels a pang in his chest. That soft expression an exact match to Ying Long's, reminding Zhuo Yichen of the gentle indulgence with which Ying Long had interacted with the world.
To see the expression on Zhu Yan's face, to fully realize that this was Ying Long's reincarnation, was to bring into question the foundational belief that had driven him through the eight years since his father and brother had been killed; that the Great Demon Zhu Yan had acted out of evil.
He couldn't judge Zhu Yan based on Ying Long's virtues, but seeing Bing Yi's memories had reconciled him to the knowledge that he and Bing Yi shared similarities that went far beyond their appearance.
It forced him to acknowledge that Zhu Yan and Ying Long would share more similarities than differences—his mind flashing for a moment to Zhu Yan's face, as he tugged Yunguang's blade into his chest, his eyes shining with something he'd mistaken for malice, but now in his memory looked more like remorse as he tried to appease Zhuo Yichen's desire for vengeance—and more, forced him to acknowledge that he knew so little about Zhu Yan at all.
"Yes," Zhuo Yichen says, still breathless, "I remember. Bing Yi didn't leave behind his blood to give his descendants a choice, he left it behind so he could awaken his memories and demonic power in his reincarnation."
Wen Xiao draws in a sharp breath at his words, "But why now?"
"There were certain conditions that needed to be met," Zhuo Yichen says, not willing to lay bare Bing Yi's obsession and grief over Ying Long when he'd barely had time to process it himself, he glances over to Zhu Yan again, "And Da Yao fulfilled them."
Zhu Yan remains quiet, saying nothing in response to this revelation, nor Zhuo Yichen's continued deathgrip on his hand, but something thoughtful comes into his eyes, a considering expression opening his face from the closed-off mask it had settled into when Zhuo Yichen had begun to speak.
"Are you well enough for travel?" Fan Ying asks, just as Zhuo Yichen begins saying:
"We need to go to the Bingyi Sacred Grounds."
"We?" Wen Xiao asks, glancing between Zhuo Yichen and Zhu Yan, her eyes darting down to where the Great Demon's hand was still clutched in his own.
"Yes," Zhuo Yichen says, intent, "I—" he falters, "I saw Bing Yi, an echo of him, he told me we needed to go to the sacred grounds, and to bring Da Yao with us."
Fan Ying nods, "We need to get you out of Tiandu today," he says, "we know there are informants for Chongwu Camp within the Bureau, and although we've done our best to keep quiet what's happened everyone is aware that something has happened."
He lays heavy emphasis on something, his expression serious.
Zhuo Yichen's mind darts through the implications, remembering the letter Zhu Yan had sent and the proposal within; remembering his own petitions to the Prime Minister to revive the Bureau.
"What about the case—" Zhuo Yichen begins, his sense of duty as leader of the Demon Hunting Bureau winning out against Bing Yi's memory.
"Xiao Zhuo-Daren," Zhu Yan finally speaks, his voice bland but his expression warm, "If you don't find a way to cultivate a demonic core soon you will die, Bing Yi's instructions are surely a priority."
Zhuo Yichen can't help but scowl at him, aware that he must seem ridiculous to make such an expression when he's still clinging tight to Zhu Yan's hand; feeling the warmth of the Great Demon's skin and the faint flutter of his pulse under his fingers doing more to settle the aching shard of Bing Yi in his soul than anything else.
Wen Xiao resolves the situation, "The two of you can go to the Bingyi Sacred Grounds," she says, "while I stay in Tiandu and gather the rest of the investigation team."
"The Prime Minister is willing to grant us a limited mandate," Fan Ying says, "nothing like we could have won had we followed through with Da Yao's proposal, but enough to choose candidates from his offered selection and begin the investigation."
"You can go to the sacred grounds and follow Bing Yi's instructions," Wen Xiao urges, not bothering to conceal her worry for Zhuo Yichen, "and then meet us at the Qi Estate."
Zhuo Yichen senses that he's facing a losing battle, glancing between Fan Ying and Wen Xiao's equally determined faces. Zhu Yan's hand gives his own a gentle squeeze, a barely perceptible increase in pressure, the Great Demon's face a mask of bland non-concern when Zhuo Yichen glances at him; but there's a sparkle in his eyes, something bright and warm and mischievous that he recognizes down to his soul.
Fan Ying had made the arrangements for them to leave Tiandu already, hiring a carriage and doing his best to stifle the rumors that he said had already begun to creep beyond the walls of the Bureau about Zhuo Yichen's sudden illness.
To counter the gossip, he'd released several similar rumors of their own; differing only in slight details—just enough that people would continue talking about them just to compare them all—but maintaining the story that Zhuo Yichen had been merely injured driving off a Demon that had come to the Bureau and was now recovered and attending to an investigation outside the city. All verifiably true, to anyone who was expending the resources to track Zhuo Yichen's movements. The Chongwu Camp being one such party. The Prime Minister being another.
Zhu Yan had surprised them by providing his own alias, supported by all the necessary official documents to prove that he was wealthy but minor nobleman Zhao Yuanzhou. The Great Demon had played it off as nothing particularly impressive, but Zhuo Yichen was aware of the pains needed to be taken to keep an estate of the size indicated in Zhao Yuanzhou's records in Tiandu—as well as the associated taxes—to know that the Great Demon had expended considerable effort to maintain the persona.
Ever since leaving the sickroom, when Zhuo Yichen had been forced, finally, to let go of his hand, the Great Demon had been acting strangely; as far as Zhuo Yichen could claim to know him.
It helped settle his mind that Wen Xiao agreed with him, his thoughts and memories still unsettled by the injection of Bing Yi's own. She had her own recollections of the Great Demon, suddenly returned to her as her own time in the Wilderness resolved a bit more into tangible memory triggered by their reunion.
Zhao Yuanzhou sat placidly in the carriage as it carried them towards Mount Kunlun, rousing occasionally from his apparent reverie to tease Zhuo Yichen and engage him in conversation, but then subsiding again, obviously distracted.
Occasionally he'd rest a hand casually on his chest, the motion discreet enough that if Zhuo Yichen hadn't had the exact place Yunguang had pierced both Zhao Yuanzhou's heart and Ying Long's seared into his memory he wouldn't have recognized what the Great Demon was doing; seeming utterly distracted as he pressed his hand over the place where the wound had been.
It was worrisome that the Great Demon was so distracted, his occasional attempts to engage Zhuo Yichen—mostly starting with some teasing observation, which Zhuo Yichen knew that just days ago he would have taken offense to, but now colored by Bing Yi's memories and Zhu Yan's own similarity to Ying Long he could only work to keep a fond expression from softening his face too much—regularly trailing off into silently contemplating him, the conversation lapsing as Zhao Yuanzhou's humor seemed to abandoned him.
He continues trying, still gamely attempting to converse with Zhuo Yichen despite his own obvious disquiet, and Bing Yi's memory leans on him again; all the Great Demon's similarities to Ying Long, and the utter loneliness that Bing Yi knew had characterized Ying Long's life before they'd met.
The memory is just out of reach, the edges of awareness and all the context supporting Bing Yi's knowledge worn away by time, but Zhuo Yichen can remember this basic fact: Bing Yi, swearing that he'd never allow Ying Long to be lonely again, an oath held in the privacy of his own heart.
Zhuo Yichen tries to maintain his awareness that Zhu Yan and Ying Long are different people, just as he and Bing Yi are different: though their similarities are many the circumstances of their lives have changed them, and he can't simply credit Zhu Yan with any goodness just because of ancient memories. But the more he learned about Zhu Yan as they traveled together, especially as Zhao Yuanzhou so transparently tried and failed to play act that nothing was wrong, Zhuo Yichen found himself warming to the Great Demon despite himself.
To Zhao Yuanzhou's relief, they manage to pass through the KunLun Gate and reach the Bingyi Clan's Sacred Grounds without running into Ying Zhao.
Zhuo Yichen has been unusually indulgent of his distraction—from every impression Zhao Yuanzhou had gotten of the leader of the Demon Hunting Bureau when he'd been arranging things to set his plans in motion, Zhuo Yichen had seemed serious and reserved, not the type to put up with much nonsense—saying nothing about Zhao Yuanzhou's faltering attempts at conversation and lapses into silence.
The wound from Yunguang has healed, but it still pains him.
He'd thought at first that Zhuo Yichen's power was greater than he'd anticipated, that the Yunguang sword had damaged him somehow, but after days of travel the ache has settled deeper than that. As though the Yunguang sword hadn't merely wounded him, but pierced through to some hollow place inside him; some old wound that hadn't healed, but merely been left to fester in darkness.
Zhu Yan is unsettled as well.
The divide that exists within his mind to separate Zhao Yuanzhou from Zhu Yan feels like it's been faltering, the whispers of the self that he'd conceived of to personify the malicious energy within him had been louder and more aware. Drawing nearer to the surface of his thoughts despite Zhao Yuanzhou still being fully in control.
The Bingyi Clan's Sacred Grounds are in the desolate north of the Wilderness, the icy tundra that Bing Yi was born in, and that no demon since had been powerful enough to conquer as their territory.
Many demons had tried, but none had returned; all the would-be heirs to Bing Yi's demonic birthplace said to be lost and dead in the icy wastes.
Zhuo Yichen had grown quiet since they'd reached it, willing to say only that Bing Yi's memories were strong here when Zhao Yuanzhou had tried to strike up conversation again.
Making their way through the cave filled with bones and emerging into the heart of the sacred grounds goes more easily than Zhao Yuanzhou had anticipated, but with Zhuo Yichen leading them confidently through the tunnels he supposes he shouldn't be surprised.
Idly, in his younger days, Zhao Yuanzhou had wondered what hidden treasures there were within the Bingyi Clan Sacred Grounds; the clan of Demon Hunters' fame had been well known, as well as the rumors of an ancient monster guarding priceless treasures and relics collected by Bing Yi's descendants over the millennia. It was a curiosity discussed among most demons the same as any other mystery of the Wilderness.
To stand in the apparently endless moonlit night that illuminated the sacred grounds, and be met with nothing but rough-hewn walls and a long-abandoned shrine was something of an anticlimax, but Zhuo Yichen seemed almost overcome with emotion at the sight. Whatever effect Bing Yi's memories had on him making the rime covered stone and small memorial carry some deep significance that escaped Zhao Yuanzhou entirely.
Zhuo Yichen started up the broad stone steps leading up to the memorial, Zhao Yuanzhou following him, when a voice rang out; the braziers springing to life with blue fire, and the faint shimmer of demonic qi glowing from the stone held bracketed in the memorial.
"Who is here?" the voice calls, the disembodied echo ringing through the narrow crevasse of ice and stone.
"Ying Long," Zhuo Yichen replies, voice choked. His eyes are glowing blue, the demonic markings on his neck stark on his skin, "Ying Long, I've returned."
He starts forward up the stairs again, Zhao Yuanzhou's attempt to grab for him and pull him back nimbly dodged as he surges forward towards the shrine.
The tone of his voice is changed, the language of his body shifted from what Zhao Yuanzhou had come to recognize into that of a stranger's; Bing Yi's memories apparently overpowering Zhuo Yichen entirely.
"Bing Yi," the voice says, echoing Zhuo Yichen's assertion, "since you left I've been all alone, it is cold and lonely here, and every minute has been like torment."
Zhao Yuanzhou watches Zhuo Yichen waver on the steps, a shiver running through his whole body as he clutches at his chest, and rushes forward to support him; catching him with an arm around his shoulders to stop him collapsing to the ground.
"I'm sorry," Zhuo Yichen says, tears running down his face, "I'm sorry, I'm here now, I'll stay with you."
Zhuo Yichen hurls himself forward into the wall of freezing mist that bursts out from the memorial and Zhao Yuanzhou follows him, racing forward to try and grab him and pull him back but only managing to grasp his arm before Zhuo Yichen reaches out and slams his palm into the memorial.
Ice forms over both of them, spreading across their bodies and freezing them before Zhao Yuanzhou can react. He can feel the inexorable pull of unconsciousness, as his waking mind is pulled along with Zhuo Yichen into the memorial stone—the memorial bone, he realizes, seeing it up close—and as the darkness steals his senses he hears the voice again.
"Bing Yi, who have you brought with you?"
Zhao Yuanzhou is standing on a rocky outcropping, looking out over a mirror-like pane of black water.
Zhu Yan is standing on a rocky outcropping, looking out over a mirror-like pane of black water.
The only thing that breaks the flat surface of the water is another ridge of rock, jutting upward, a spar of bare stone on which a figure is seated.
The man stands, rising carefully from his seat with the slowness that Zhao Yuanzhou associates with old age or terrible injury. Once he's standing he steps lightly across the water, his motions still slightly labored with the strain of old wounds, old pain.
Zhao Yuanzhou doesn't become entirely become cognizant of Zhu Yan next to him—the avatar of the vessel of malicious energy that he held inside himself, to whom he'd ceded his own name, the being he felt sometimes had more control over him than he had over it, whose actions caused him so much grief and regret—standing proudly as he always did, wreathed in malicious energy and with his robe draped over one shoulder and the rest billowing behind him, until the man reaches the outcropping of rock they're standing on.
For the same reason, the pliable nature of dreams and visions, Zhao Yuanzhou can't fully understand the visage of the man standing before them until he steps onto the rock; the soft blur and glow of his form resolving into clarity.
"It's just Bing Yi's luck," Ying Long says, smiling at the both of them with a face Zhao Yuanzhou knows as his own, "that he would find his reincarnation and mine as well."
"You…" Zhao Yuanzhou trails off, staring at Ying Long: his robes are silver and white; his hair a stark obsidian and hanging with silver jewelry; his demon marks displayed proudly, the neckline of his robe pulled low to reveal the full length of the line tracing down his throat.
"You held me, once," Zhu Yan says, "I remember you," his usually blandly amused expression turning thoughtful.
Zhao Yuanzhou had never truly been aware of how much memory the vessel had of its own, had dedicated himself more to suppressing and controlling it than trying to fully understand it.
"Yes," Ying Long says, nodding at Zhu Yan, his soft expression turning remorseful as he looked at the two of them, "I did, that's why I chose to sacrifice myself, my death would release not just my own qi but the amassed malicious energy I carried."
“And you used it to light the stars,” Zhao Yuanzhou says, his voice equally soft but his eyes brimming with tears.
Ying Long nods, the bells in his hair chiming softly, reaching out to both of them to grasp them by the arms; his touch is grounding, finally settling the broken-open feeling that had lingered in Zhao Yuanzhou since he'd pulled the Yunguang sword through his own heart.
In the circle of their bodies a mote of golden light begins to glow, shimmers of energy spilling from Zhao Yuanzhou's chest until the glowing shard fully materializes; the symbol representing half the Baize Token hovering gently in the air between the three of them.
"The Baize Token?" Zhao Yuanzhou asks, stunned, trying to wade through the malicious energy that clouded his memory of the day Zhao Wan'er died.
Zhu Yan stands beside him, unmoved, as tears roll down his face; the golden light of the Baize Token casting grim shadows across his face before slowly, he reaches out to complete the circle, taking Zhao Yuanzhou's hand in his own.
The memory that tears through them is visceral and painful. The overwhelming power of the Blood Moon bringing the malicious energy to the fore in a way Zhao Yuanzhou had never been able to resist. Zhao Wan'er's last act, of dividing the Baize Token and sending half to Zhu Yan.
"Why?" Zhao Yuanzhou asks, voice choked, his hands tightening around Zhu Yan's hand and Ying Long's arm where they were linked, the word encompassing the millennia he'd suffered as a vessel with no control, "Why?"
“When Bing Yi refused to let go of me, shearing off a portion of my soul in hopes I might return,” Ying Long says, his expression warmly fond, but exposing a deep spiritual exhaustion, “I was kept anchored here by my bones, while the rest of my soul passed forward to reincarnate.”
“As me,” Zhao Yuanzhou says, his voice overlapping with Zhu Yan’s as they speak at the same time.
For a moment they stare at each other, Zhao Yuanzhou and Zhu Yan—the two fragmented aspects he’d split himself into—a tension running between them before Ying Long tightens his grip on both of their arms, pulling the three of them even more closely together, the half Baize Token still shimmering between them.
“The wound in our soul made it impossible for us to fully master the malicious energy the way a vessel should be able to,” Ying Long says, “and the strain on us led to the two of you fraying apart.”
“Why did the Baize Token repress me?” Zhu Yan asks, red eyes intent on Ying Long’s face.
“The Baize Token acted to fill the place where my piece of our soul should be, temporarily repairing our flaw as the vessel.”
“And now?” Zhao Yuanzhou asks, glancing between Zhu Yan and Ying Long.
“Now we will finally repair what was broken,” Ying Long says, smiling softly at the both of them.
“What if we can’t?” Zhao Yuanzhou asks, a fragile hope in his voice.
“What if we don’t want to?” Zhu Yan asks, malicious energy still rising like steam from his body, eyes red and demon marks stark on his face, "I am hated and suppressed, why should I?"
“We can,” Ying Long says, his voice gentle but implacable, “and we will,” he looks at Zhao Yuanzhou and Zhu Yan with dark, serious eyes, “it will destroy us if we don’t, and not just us but the vessel as well, and everything that depends on the vessel’s existence will wither and fade without it.”
“I wanted to die to destroy it,” Zhao Yuanzhou says, a quiet admission of guilt, “I sought the Yunguang sword so I would be utterly destroyed and it with me, breaking the cycle of reincarnation."
“When I was vessel it was merely a reservoir of the world’s malicious energy, absorbed to be contained and then slowly purified and dispersed as I spent my power,” Ying Long says into the silence between them, “but after my death and your birth things changed, the power of the Baize Goddess also draws upon the vessel’s malicious energy, if you had succeeded as you hoped and the vessel shattered then the power of the Baize Goddess would be crippled as well, with nothing to draw upon.”
Zhao Yuanzhou looks stricken at the thought, Zhu Yan turning to him to say, “You didn’t even realize, did you?”
“No…” Zhao Yuanzhou says, voice a horrified whisper.
“You were so desperate to be free of me,” Zhu Yan says, his tone angry but hurt shining in his eyes, “You repress your knowledge and power, you deny my part of us, you carve yourself down and play pretend and—“
Zhu Yan cuts himself off, his teeth clicking as he bites off the last word; a shiver of rage running through him even as his own tears begin to fall.
Ying Long sighs, “It is time to let go,” he says, “don’t blame Bing Yi for not being able to, but don’t allow us to make his same mistakes.”
Zhao Yuanzhou shakes his head, tears running freely down his face.
Zhu Yan nods once, the sharp motion at odds with the pained look on his face and his own tears.
Ying Long draws them towards him, his hands on their arms bringing them both into his embrace.
The Baize Token rises above them, leaving a shimmering trail of golden light as it lifts away from the three of them; the last few glowing embers of its power drawing away from Zhu Yan and Zhao Yuanzhou as it fully extricates itself from them.
“It’s time to be whole again,” Ying Long says, “it’s time to forgive yourself.”
The malicious energy surrounding Zhu Yan swirls outward to encompass the three of them, rising around them as Zhao Yuanzhou and Zhu Yan collapse forward into Ying Long’s arms.
“It’s time to remember that we are one,” Ying Long’s voice echoes one last time, before the rising malicious energy explodes outwards in a torrent of starlight and Ever-burning Fire.
The first thing Zhao Yuanzhou feels is pain, the aching tear in his soul now fully revealed as Ying Long's last piece of spirit is returned to its place and mends that empty space. The brilliant silver fire that is Ying Long sinking into him, settling in to all the places that felt torn-open and empty for so long.
Faintly he thinks he can hear Ying Long's laugh, a distant, fading echo as the Ever-burning Fire that had bonded to him is subsumed into the star-fire that is Ying Long; this unexpected drop of heavenly flame, this small ember of what Ying Long had died to become finally absorbed fully into his core.
Zhu Yan stands beside him still, their hands still clasped, Ying Long's shimmering qi hanging around him as he and Zhao Yuanzhou turn toward each other; reaching out to each other to join both their hands for the first time since Zhao Yuanzhou had first felt the split between them form in his mind.
The malicious energy is warm as it surrounds them, Zhao Yuanzhou casting off his human form to assume his demonic one as the vessel shatters apart into a tide of red sparks that surround him just as Ying Long's silver flame does.
Zhu Yan draws in a deep breath, centering himself, and then throws his arms out; spreading them and opening his chest, allowing his meridians to open with the gesture and unleashing the instinct the vessel carried inside him to absorb the energy surrounding him.
Memories rush to the forefront of his mind, of times the vessel had been in control: Zhao Wan'er's death, the massacre of the Demon Hunting Bureau; his black-outs and rampages; the blood on his hands.
Zhu Yan allows himself his tears, the vortex of red and black and silver surrounding him pulling tightly inward as he clawed his power back to himself; as he finally felt the pieces mend and heal, each facet and aspect reconciled.
Ying Long's memories run through him next, the agonizing stretch of his millennia of loneliness—imprisoned in the memorial Bing Yi had build to hold the last shred of his spirit—breaking over him like an icy tide. The kinship felt between them, for all Zhu Yan's years struggling under the weight of the imperfect vessel he'd been born with.
But the ice recedes, the fire of them rising as Ying Long's memory of his death plays out in their mind; the heat of every glowing star flaring to break the frozen shackles that held them apart.
Zhu Yan comes back to himself suddenly, ever-burning star fire radiating out from his body to shatter the ice encasing himself and Zhuo Yichen.
He finds himself smiling, looking at Zhuo Yichen's stunned face, at the now-empty shrine where Ying Long's last bone stood, at the stars and moon that seem so much brighter.
Zhuo Yichen feels the intangible weight of Ying Long's bone settle into his core—Ying Long's last gift, after he'd already given everything to Bing Yi and only been given suffering in return—the chaotic force of his demonic qi quieting and beginning to circulate through it.
He remembers the reunion between Bing Yi and Ying Long, the two of them embracing, both in tears, before Ying Long had granted Zhuo Yichen his gift and dispersed a final time. Bing Yi dispersing soon after, his last lingering regret laid to rest now that Ying Long's soul was fully freed.
He's never felt cold like other people, able to stay in the snow for hours longer than his brother had been, but he feels a chill surrounding him followed by a wash of searing heat.
Zhuo Yichen opens his eyes, awakening fully from the dream-like vision held within Ying Long's bone.
The memorial shrine is empty now, a few faint motes of silver light still illuminating the place where Ying Long's bone was held.
He feels hands on him, tugging him away from the empty shrine, and he turns to follow them.
Zhu Yan stands behind him, still reaching for him as he'd been when Bing Yi's regrets had overwhelmed him and driven him into Ying Long's visions, but he's not in his human form anymore.
The curved markings that frame his eyes—glowing a deep, ruby red—are the same, but the thin line running downward from his chin is new; following the same shape and curve as Ying Long's but drawn in the same gradient of black and dark red as the marks under his eyes. His hair has changed as well: the whole knee-length mass of it gone from black and silver to a soft cloud of white falling in gentle waves around him.
He smiles at Zhuo Yichen, a true smile, his whole face lighting up with such a glowing, irresistible joy that Zhuo Yichen loses his breath.
Zhuo Yichen's eyes, influenced now by Bing Yi's memories and the new instinct of his demonic nature, takes in the black claws on Zhu Yan's hands, the sharp fangs bared by his smile, the feel of Zhu Yan in his senses: the dense core of power, ancient and vast, that Zhu Yan held inside him.
Bing Yi's eyes bias him, but Zhuo Yichen can't help, now, but acknowledge Zhu Yan's painful, heartbreaking beauty.
"Xiao Zhuo-Daren," Zhu Yan says, his voice warm, smile still playing on his lips, his eyes flick upward and Zhuo Yichen manages to tear his eyes from his face to follow the line of his gaze.
Floating gently above them is a golden sigil Zhuo Yichen doesn't recognize.
It slowly descends, until Zhu Yan can capture it, letting go of Zhuo Yichen to clasp his hands around it. A flare of golden light rising from between his fingers and then dying down, leaving Zhu Yan with half of a broken flute laying on the palm of his hand.
"What is it?" Zhuo Yichen asks, his own smile rising to his lips to match Zhu Yan; he feels the same lightness reflected on Zhu Yan's face within himself, a peace that he hadn't known he was being denied now finally found.
"This," Zhu Yan says, holding up the broken flute with another irrepressible grin, laughing his words, "is the missing half of the Baize Token."