Return of The Yiling Laozu

Reverse Empathy

"Thank you," he whispered, voice thick.

A small kiss pressed against Lan Wangji’s cheek—fleeting, innocent, but full of trust.

And then—

Lan Wangji smiled.

Not a reserved tilt of the lips. Not a subtle curve.

A smile. Wide and unguarded, lighting up his entire face.

Wei Wuxian stood frozen.

That was how Lan Qiren and Lan Xichen found them—Lan Wangji’s pristine robes smudged with dirt, a red ribbon hastily tied around his wrist where a dog had nipped, his toy now clutched by a child who had known too much loneliness.

But Lan Wangji didn’t care.

Because he was smiling.

The memory rippled, shifting like ink spreading over water. The warm hues of Lotus Pier faded, replaced by the crisp, blue-tinted serenity of Cloud Recesses. The air was cool, laced with the faint scent of sandalwood and parchment. White-robed cultivators stood in orderly rows beneath the grand pavilion, their gazes fixed on the young boy at the center of it all.

Twelve-year-old Lan Wangji knelt before the elders, his posture straight, his expression solemn. He was clad in the finest white robes embroidered with silver cloud patterns, the weight of tradition heavy on his small shoulders. Before him, resting on a ceremonial silk cloth, lay Bichen.

A spirit sword of unparalleled craftsmanship. Its hilt was wrapped in deep blue, the blade glimmering faintly under the afternoon light. It hummed softly, sensing its new master.

Lan Qiren, standing tall among the gathered elders, observed his nephew with a quiet, restrained pride. His hands were clasped behind his back, but there was a softness to his gaze—an unspoken acknowledgment of Lan Wangji’s achievement.

“Lan Wangji,” the head elder intoned. “You are the youngest of your generation to receive a spirit sword. May you wield it with wisdom and integrity.”

Lan Wangji pressed his forehead to the floor in a deep bow. “I will not disappoint the Lan Clan,” he vowed.

As he rose, Lan Xichen stepped forward, his face glowing with pride. He picked up Bichen and placed it into Lan Wangji’s hands.

“Did I not say he was a prodigy?” Xichen boasted to the elders, his smile bright. “Look at him! Twelve years old and already recognized by a spirit sword.”

A few elders murmured their agreement, nodding approvingly.

Lan Wangji, ever composed, merely dipped his head in silent gratitude.

Then, from the far end of the pavilion, a soft shuffle of robes.

Lan Qifenjun, their father, stepped out of seclusion.

The gathered cultivators parted in quiet surprise. Even Lan Qiren’s usual stern expression faltered for a brief moment. It had been years since Lan Qifenjun had made a public appearance.

Lan Wangji’s fingers tightened around Bichen. His heart, usually steady, pounded a little faster.

His father stood before him, his face pale from years of isolation, but his eyes—so similar to Lan Wangji’s—were clear. For the first time in as long as he could remember, those eyes truly saw him.

Lan Qifenjun lifted a hand and rested it gently atop Lan Wangji’s head.

“Wangji,” he murmured. “You have done well.”

A rush of warmth flooded Lan Wangji’s chest. He lowered himself into another bow, forehead nearly touching his father’s boots.

“Father,” he said, voice quiet but steady.

Then, before anyone could react, he stood and, in a rare display of emotion, stepped forward—wrapping his arms around his father.

A murmur swept through the onlookers. Lan Wangji, who had always been reserved, had initiated an embrace in front of the entire sect.

Wei Wuxian held his breath. Would Lan Qifenjun pull away? Would he stand frozen, like a man unfamiliar with warmth?

But he didn’t.

Lan Qifenjun didn’t recoil. He didn’t stiffen.

Instead, his arms came up, hesitantly at first, then securely, resting around his son’s back.

Lan Wangji closed his eyes, the weight of years of loneliness easing just a fraction.

For the first time, he wasn’t simply an heir.

He was just a son.

To be continued...