What else was Xie Lian supposed to do when a powerful ghost launches a curse at his beloved San Lang? Not jump in the way and take the brunt of it?

Xie Lian had braced himself for a whole lot of pain — pain was something he was familiar with, so he knew it wouldn’t be too much to handle. (He can practically hear San Lang’s scolding voice in his head.) But strangely enough, there was no pain. Nothing felt hurt or injured, but Xie Lian certainly felt something. That something was nausea; the kind of nausea you experience with extreme dizziness.

Xie Lian actually ends up stumbling and falling right on his bum because of it. However, that doesn’t hurt either, as the grass and dirt cushion his fall — wait. Why was he outside? He wasn’t a moment before.

So it was some kind of relocation curse, Xie Lian muses, but where —?

“Dianxia?”

And just like that, Xie Lian cannot breathe. It’s as though a brutal winter chill spreads over his body, ripping a choked gasp from his gaping mouth. His heart stutter feebly in his chest as a mixture of ice cold terror and denial flow through his veins. He sucks in a ragged breath and his head snaps up in the direction of a very familiar voice.

Xie Lian almost bursts into tears on the spot.

Wu Ming was knelt in front of him at a respectable distance, his pale, slender hands held out in stationary concern. Xie Lian could perfectly picture his expression behind that white, smiling mask: thin eyebrows furrowed, a slight frown on his lips, his eyes — because he would still have both of them now, one of them grey and the other crimson — filled with worry.

“Dianxia, are you okay?” Wu Ming says again, his voice soft. And oh. How hadn’t Xie Lian noticed how similar San Lang had sounded to him? Because this was San Lang, just from the past. That’s where the curse brought Xie Lian. This was his precious San Lang, but a version of him that Xie Lian had so cruelly mistreated.

I’m so sorry, Wu Ming. I’m so, so awfully sorry.