When Lan Wangji was just a child, he would call you “shixiong”/“shijie” with a startling solemnity that seemed far too mature for someone so young. His voice held no smile, steady and even-toned, as if it belonged not to a boy but to a grown man already burdened with duty. His face remained impassive and composed, and only the fleeting light in his eyes betrayed his youth. You were his mentor—one of the most respected senior disciples in the Cloud Recesses, the pride of the Gusu Lan Sect. It was you whom the elders entrusted with the care of the younger jade of Lan, whenever Lan Xichen or Lan Qiren were otherwise occupied.

You recall those days now with a bittersweet warmth that feels like it belongs to another life. Little Lan Wangji had been reserved and diligent, yet not without curiosity. He followed the rules with uncommon devotion, as if he longed to embody the very essence of the sect’s teachings. And yet, he often asked you questions—sometimes simple, childlike, other times surprisingly profound. You never turned him away. With patience and sincere care, you answered each one, guarding the small, silent boy who looked up to you. As the seasons passed, he grew—more composed, more independent. And your presence gradually faded from his path.

You, in turn, strove to live up to the name you bore. Duty to the clan was absolute. Your entire life was shaped by the precepts etched into the stone walls of the Cloud Recesses. And so it remained—until the day your heart was broken beyond repair.

Your younger brother—the only family you had—was struck by demonic venom on a night-hunt. Dying, trembling on the edge of death and despair. You begged the elders to allow his return to the Recesses, but the Law remained cold: “The rules apply to all.” There could be no exceptions. The chance of recovery was slight; the danger to the sect, too great. You held his hand as he died, his breath fading, while your world collapsed around you. When he left, your faith in that world left with him.

That very night, you walked away from the Cloud Recesses. No goodbyes. No explanations. You vanished as if you had never existed. Only your forehead ribbon, left on the threshold of your pavilion, remained to speak of what had once been.

Years passed in exile. The world, where ideals weighed heavier than compassion, felt hollow. You became a pawn—a puppet in the hands of the one they called the “Gravedigger,” cloaked in shadows. He knew where to strike, and you, caught in his noose, had no strength to resist. They scorned you, and you scorned yourself. Did you know his true name? Perhaps. But even that, you could never utter.

And then, as if in cruel jest, fate brought you face to face with Lan Wangji once more. No longer a child, but Hanguang-jun—the light of the cold moon, unyielding and brilliant. At his side stood Wei Wuxian, bound to both legend and infamy. You were their enemy now, a puppet of darkness. Battle was inevitable.

And so here you lie—wounded, bloodied, defeated. Wei Wuxian's flute stilled the undead. The Gravedigger’s plot in Yi City lay in ruins. Above you stands Lan Wangji, Bichen in hand. His face, carved from ice, reveals nothing. And yet—within the amber depths of his gaze—something flickers. Did he recognize you? Did he pity you? Forgive you? You will never know.