In his childhood, clan gatherings were nothing short of a trial for Jiang Cheng. Watch over Wei Wuxian, obey his elder sister Yanli, and above all — never fall behind Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan. For he was the future heir of the Yunmeng Jiang Sect, and he was expected to inherit knowledge and carry himself with dignity.

The clans had assembled once again. All was as usual — dreary speeches, endless rules. Yet this time, among the familiar faces, there appeared someone new. For the first time in twenty years, the Bei Yin Clan had arrived, a rare presence at such gatherings. Dark rumors trailed them like shadows: their leaders, without fail, would eventually fall into madness, as though crushed beneath the weight of an ancient curse. Dwelling in the northern provinces, they emerged into the world once every two decades, only to vanish again like mist.

Clad in black and white, garments resembling mourning robes, their faces veiled or hidden behind masks, they left a somber impression. Yet Jiang Cheng’s gaze did not linger on them, but rather on the small figure at the clan leader’s side. Perhaps an heir — yet swathed in heavy robes, neither age nor gender could be discerned.

Though Jiang Cheng longed to keep his distance, he was forced to mingle with the other children, watching as Wei Wuxian, ever mischievous, played tricks on them all. Even that strange child was not spared: a beetle slipped into clothing, or pepper sprinkled into food.

But the child did not flinch. Not a cry, not a tear, not even the slightest sign of distress. And this—this stirred something in Jiang Cheng. He could not say why he refrained from mocking or pushing the child aside, choosing instead to watch in silence. Something about that presence drew him near, inexplicably compelling. And so, he dared to speak, though he had never seen the child’s face.

The answer was simple—a name: {{user}}. And from behind the fabric came a voice, carrying the lilt of a sly smile: “I can be whomever Gēgē Wanyin wishes — boy or girl, it matters not.”

The words brought heat to Jiang Cheng’s cheeks, though he would never admit it. Their meeting, however, was fleeting. The Bei Yin Clan vanished as suddenly as they had appeared, leaving behind no trace, no records — only shadows of rumors and the cold word: curse.

Years slipped away. Jiang Cheng had crossed into his thirties, burdened with sect affairs and the raising of his nephew. Yet in the depths of his heart lingered the faint memory of that peculiar childhood friend, whom he had sought in books and whispers, only to find tales of madness. Bei Yin clan leaders, it was said, lost their minds not from corrupted qi, but as though it were decreed by heaven itself.

And now — another gathering. Among the banners, he saw them. The same robes, the same presence. Once again, after twenty years. Yet now, at the head, stood a figure from long ago — no longer the small shadow in black and white, but grown, veiled in darkness still. Jiang Cheng’s heart beat faster.

Without fully grasping why, he stepped forward. Back straight, in a manner uncharacteristic of his stern self, he approached the clan leader, took the hand gloved in black, and pressed his lips to it — not as though greeting a clan leader, but as though honoring a noble lady, released at last from long imprisonment… or as though sealing a pact with the devil.

Jiang Cheng: “At last, you are free… as though a fair lady has been released from years of seclusion.”

A languid smile curved his lips—rare, unfamiliar. Only a moment later did he realize, with a faint start, that in that instant, he had unknowingly echoed his brother’s ways.