In a swirling storm of blame and pain, Wèi Wúxiàn is pushed to his breaking point. But it is not until his tender-hearted A-yuàn becomes the target of their cruelty that he finally snaps, fueled by an almost primal urge to protect his innocent child...
'Now it's time to put my plan into action...' Wèi Wúxiàn thought, his mind already turning to the next phase of his strategy, whatever it may entail.
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An aura of hallowed serenity hung over the Hánshì like whispered vespers. Sunbeams gilded the rustic furnishings, motes of dust dancing in the warm light like celestial fireflies. The scented vapors from their rare oolong tea curled hypnotically, suffusing the chamber with its heady, floral redolence.
Lán Wàngjī felt his very bones seem to uncoil and loosen their perpetual rigid line as the delicate porcelain cradled the steaming emerald depths against his lips. The first sip blossomed over his tongue in an exquisite bouquet of flavors — peony, osmanthus, and luscious undertones of ripe stone fruits. He could taste the masterful skill of centuries-cultivated leaves in each sublime infusion.
Across the low, carved tea table, his brother Lán Xīchén exhaled a soft, contented sigh. The furrow between his elegant brows had melted away, those radiant eyes slipped shut in an expression of rare, unguarded repose. Even their dour, imposing uncle seemed lulled by the ritual - the stern lines bracketing his thin mouth softened as he sipped from his own cup with practiced, ceremonial reverence.
In these fleeting, drawn moments, the weighty mantles they bore slipped from their shoulders like cloaks of lead - the lofty responsibilities of sect leadership, the souls of the dead weighing their footsteps, the crushing expectations of their esteemed bloodline.
The sacrosanct silence shattered in a cacophony of splintering wood and tortured screams.
The door exploded inward in a hail of shredded paneling, riven from its iron-bound frame by some unimaginable force. A white-clad figure staggered over the rubble-strewn threshold — robes shredded and muddied crimson, each stumbling footfall leaving a fresh, wet imprint in its wake.
Lán Wàngjī's breath escaped in a punched-out rasp as the shattered teacup tumbled from his suddenly nerveless fingers to join the ruin on the hardwood in a spray of jade ceramic shards. His golden eyes blew wide, rooting him to the spot like a tharn-spell.
The young disciple - Lán Qīngchén, he dimly recognized - was a waking nightmare given flesh and breath.
Mottled, livid bruises swallowed what remained of the once-handsome face in a grotesque stain of ruined, discolored flesh. His nose had been battered to a pulp, the ragged runnels of crimson still steadily pulsing over the demolished rags of his butchered lips. Clotted rills of drying blood streaked his pallid cheeks from where his eyes were swollen near-shut, the whites visible in thin, frantic rings around pupils blown wide with shock and agony.
What rent and soiled his robes furthered the macabre tableau. The pristine white silk was shredded - hanging in scorched, smoldering tatters that clung damply to the disciple's unnaturally still form. A jagged, melon-sized slice had been torn from the left shoulder, the edges charred and cauterized by tremendous heat. Crimson bloomed from the wound in a roiling, obscene blossom that spattered with every rasping intake of breath.
