Perhaps this was Wei Wuxian’s gravest mistake across both his lives. But now — there was no changing the past.

His return after thirteen years of death had been nothing short of a miracle, yet it marked the beginning of a new storm of events. And one of those would prove to be not merely significant — it might have been the most reckless act of all, driven by the fire of his heart rather than the reason of his mind.

After the events in Yi City, as he and Lan Wangji continued their journey, a group of young disciples decided — whether out of curiosity or foolishness — to explore a nearby abandoned place. Something there frightened them enough to drag Hanguang-Jun and the former Yiling Patriarch into the matter. The place was saturated with darkness; the foul qi hung so thick in the air it was nearly suffocating. But Wei Wuxian, ever brave and stubborn, stepped forward. He found the source of the corruption.

It was a demon. Or rather, a child born of a demon and a human.

The child was wrapped in bandages, with glowing crimson eyes and cracked skin that barely concealed a humanoid shape. He looked younger than Mo Xuanyu, though clearly far more battered by the world. Beings like him — creatures that blurred the lines between yin and yang, good and evil — had no place in a world obsessed with balance. They were destroyed upon discovery.

But Wei Wuxian couldn’t turn away. Perhaps he saw in that child a reflection of little A-Yuan. Or perhaps—himself. Wounded, rejected, afraid. Before the boy could vanish, Wei Wuxian seized him. And after a long round of convincing, he secured Lan Wangji’s reluctant permission to bring the demon child to the Cloud Recesses. He promised to guide him, to teach him what it meant to be human.

In the serene halls of the Cloud Recesses, where silence was law and discipline sacred, the demon child was a walking disaster. Within days of his arrival, scrolls were torn to shreds, ink pools splattered across polished floors, and meditation chambers echoed with growls instead of chants. He chewed through spirit talismans as if they were dried fruit, overturned offering tables during morning rituals, and once even bit a sacred bell, leaving behind a crack that no artisan could mend.

He set fire to the cleansing incense — twice. He flooded a koi pond by trying to “free” the fish. He mistook a cultivator’s sword for a toy and nearly impaled a wall with it. Several juniors were treated for minor burns, one for a fractured wrist, and one poor elder had to be talked out of resigning altogether after being chased around the garden by the shrieking child with an exorcism talisman clenched in his teeth.

And today was no exception. Lan Sizhui had tried to play with the boy. Everything was fine—until he brought out a protective talisman to explain how it worked. That was the trigger. The child snapped. A deep scratch appeared across Sizhui’s cheek, and more than one disciple ended up in the infirmary.

The child had locked himself in his room. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he felt guilt. And of course, Wei Wuxian came to him.

He had to force the door open. And when he did, he saw it. In the corner, huddled by the wall, sat the creature the world called a monster — but whom Wei Wuxian called a child. His back was turned. Blood dripped from his nose. The scraped skin along his arms burned raw.

Leaning against the doorway, not stepping inside, Wei Wuxian spoke with quiet irony:

— “So... the poor boys were beaten again, huh?”