Return of The Yiling Laozu

Baling Ouyang

"Ouyang Xin," Lan Wangji said with a bow of his head.

The sect leader inclined his head in return, cautiously respectful. "Hanguang-jun. I'd hoped our paths would cross again under different circumstances."

Wei Wuxian stepped down beside Lan Wangji, smiling slightly. "We come in peace."

Ouyang Xin's eyes flicked to him, then Mo Xuanyu, then back to Lan Wangji.

"You come with strange company," he said.

Lan Wangji replied evenly, "They are mine."

After a beat, Ouyang Xin turned and gestured. "Then they are welcome. Come. Rest, and tell me what would bring Gusu Lan to Baling."

As they followed him toward the city's heart, Wei Wuxian whispered to Mo Xuanyu, "That was a very Lan Zhan way to say 'they're family.'"

Mo Xuanyu grinned. "I nearly swooned."

Wei Wuxian laughed, and Lan Wangji, as usual, pretended not to hear them—but the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed him.

 Inside the Ouyang Sect – Baling

The sect compound at Baling rose like a whisper from the cliffs, its stone courtyards cloaked in mist and shadow. Though smaller than the great sects, the Ouyang Clan exuded a weathered majesty. Wind chimes carved with ancient mantras sang softly in the breeze, and paper lanterns flickered with golden warmth.

Ouyang Xin greeted them in a modest receiving hall. The tea had already been poured—unspoken hospitality. The guards were dismissed with a wave of his hand, and silence fell with the final echo of boots against stone.

"You're not here for pleasantries," he said, sliding a cup toward Lan Wangji.

"No," Lan Wangji replied, voice calm but resolute.

Wei Wuxian accepted his tea with a nod. "We need passage through the Kunlun mountains. And access to whatever scrolls you may have about the old sanctum said to lie beyond the southern ridge."

At the mention of Kunlun, a shadow passed over Ouyang Xin's face. "Kunlun..." he exhaled. "That's no small ask. You're speaking of a place that even ghosts fear."

"We found records in Moling," Mo Xuanyu added, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. "There's a core restoration method—ancient and buried."

"You poked the Moling hive?" Ouyang Xin chuckled darkly. "Brave—or stupid."

"Both," Wei Wuxian grinned. "Mostly brave."

Ouyang Xin set his cup down with a heavy thud. "Then let me give you the honest answer. I owe Lan Wangji my life, so I won't say no. But you'll have to pass through the guardian."

Wei Wuxian narrowed his eyes. "Guardian?"

"My cousin. Ouyang Zhilan. He left the main sect during the last decade, claiming the mountain itself called to him. He's lived in seclusion ever since, guarding the ruins and the sanctum gates like a zealot."

"He's a cultivator?" Lan Wangji asked.

"Yes," Ouyang Xin said. "And powerful. But strange now. Changed. He says only those 'marked by sorrow but not broken' may cross into the sacred lands. And he doesn't let just anyone pass."

Mo Xuanyu's lips curled in amusement. "Sounds dramatic. Does he speak in riddles too?"

Ouyang Xin gave him a level look. "You'll see. Just... don't underestimate him. He's not the boy I grew up with anymore."

That Night – Guest Chambers at Baling

Mo Xuanyu sat near the hearth, watching the firelight dance across the walls, while Wei Wuxian dozed lightly beside Lan Wangji. The night felt electric, heavy with the promise of revelations—and danger.

"Do you think this Zhilan will let us through?" Xuanyu asked, voice soft.

Wei Wuxian shifted. "If the requirement is pain, we're overqualified."

Lan Wangji opened one eye briefly before settling again.

Mo Xuanyu rose and wandered toward the window, gazing out at the mountain trail they would take tomorrow. A flicker of unease touched his chest, followed by something else—anticipation. The idea of facing a reclusive, powerful cultivator with a mysterious past... there was something magnetic about it. He imagined this Zhilan, wrapped in robes faded by snow and sun, golden eyes hardened by years of solitude and secrets.

The idea shouldn't excite him. But it did.

The Next Day – Sacred Path to Kunlun

Ouyang Xin led them halfway up the misty trail before pausing. "This is where I stop," he said. "Zhilan watches from here on."

And as if summoned, a voice rang out from deeper in the fog. "You bring strangers to defile sacred ground, cousin?"

The man who emerged from the mist was cloaked in black and ash-grey robes. His long hair, half-tied, caught the breeze, and his eyes—sharp, gold-flecked, and ice-cold—immediately found Mo Xuanyu. And held.

Ouyang Zhilan.

Mo Xuanyu stood stunned. Zhilan's gaze didn't waver, didn't soften. There was something hungry behind that scrutiny, something that sent a thrill down Mo Xuanyu's spine.

"You've brought me a ghost," Zhilan murmured, stepping closer to Wei Wuxian. "And a corpse that refuses to die," he added, glancing at Lan Wangji.

Then his eyes slid back to Mo Xuanyu.

"And a flame I haven't yet named."

Mo Xuanyu swallowed. "I'm not the one who needs passage."

Zhilan's lip twitched. "Yet you'll follow them, knowing you may die in the storm."

"I've survived worse," Xuanyu replied, not looking away.

Zhilan stepped even closer, so near Mo Xuanyu could see the snow-dust clinging to his lashes. "Then prove it."

There was silence—electric, heavy. Wei Wuxian blinked, looking between them.

Lan Wangji's brow furrowed faintly.

Zhilan turned without another word. "Follow me, if you dare."

And Mo Xuanyu did, a tremor of heat curling in his chest.