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Nie Mingjue has meditated, but he will recover faster if he can get out of the medical tent and back into the field to kill the remainder of the Wen-dogs.
One of his senior disciples reports to him that while a great number of Wen have been captured, yet more have fled Nevernight in a doomed attempt to save their worthless skins. They have been hemmed in on all sides by the Jin, who are claiming all the credit for not letting a single Wen-dog escape.
After that it is impossible to meditate. Every sinew in his body screams with pain, but he throws the doctors aside and leaves the tent.
The sun is setting on Nevernight. The air is still harsh and smoky, and there is still the sullen glow of embers beneath the ash.
"Where are they?" he demands.
"Chifeng-zun," stammers one of the doctors, pushing himself up from the ground and then folding over in obeisance. "Who are you looking for?"
"The Wen-dogs, who else?"
"The Jin Clan are responsible for the captives, they—"
Nie Mingjue strides away. He has not gone far before he meets another obstacle.
"Mingjue-xiong, you have yet to recover from your injuries." Lan Xichen is clad in pure white, the only touch of colour the blue cloud patterns on the ribbon bound close about his brow. There is no fear or even concern in his face, only warm understanding. "We hold the city; won't you allow the doctors to attend to you?"
"And let Jin Guangshan take spoils and credit he didn't do a thing to earn?"
"I think it's too late to stop that," says Lan Xichen with a wry twist to his smile. "I am hopeful he can be influenced. Talks begin in the morning, and it will go better for us all if we are rested and come together to discuss in good faith."
"Jin Guangshan never did anything in good faith in his life," sneers Nie Mingjue, and Lan Xichen smiles another wry smile.
"All the more reason to rest and ensure you have your wits about you. You're bleeding." He gestures and Nie Mingjue looks down to see blood has indeed made its way through the bandages in several places. He doesn't feel it.
"I'll speak to him now. I'll tell him exactly what I think. I'll—" He grips Baxia's hilt and wrenches his imagination back on track. For a moment he had seen himself separating Jin Guangshan's head from his shoulders, but no—no. Neither of them are quite that far gone. He will think instead of the sweet sharp bite of the blade into Wen necks as they kneel to accept their due.
Lan Xichen is no longer looking at him. That wry smile is gentle again, soft as a wisp of passing cloud.
"A-Yao."
Meng Yao steps wide-eyed out of the shadows and bows deeply.
"Zewu-jun. Chifeng-zun. This humble one is—"
He lunges. Nie Mingjue lurches aside, drawing Baxia in a slashing arc, and Shuoyue sings through the air in tandem.
The tattered Wen disciples emerging through the smoke drive their own swords forward in answer. One falls to a crunching blow from Baxia that severs his spine, and the other goes down with a red line drawn across his throat by Shuoyue.
There are three men.
"A-Yao!" calls Lan Xichen, already moving through the sweep of his killing strike to turn and help. Nie Mingjue moves after him, slow, too slow as his battered body protests and his qi sputters.
Meng Yao moves like a reed in the wind, arching backwards to avoid the first swing of the Wen cultivator's sword. But he does not jump back again. He draws a slim sword hidden at his belt, and the blade whistles through the air and catches his opponent's with a dull clack of metal on metal.
The Wen cultivator tries to pull back, but the soft, slender blade of Meng Yao's sword has curled around his own. He cannot wrench free quickly enough.
Meng Yao smiles.
The Wen cultivator's sword shatters. Molten fragments of steel drop to the ashy ground, hissing into silence. And the Wen cultivator gasps as Meng Yao draws a dagger with his other hand and drives it into the soft hollow of his throat.
The third body drops to the ground, and then there is silence.
"I will arrange for them to be added to the pyres and properly exorcised," murmurs Meng Yao as if he is offering an update on seating arrangements. The smile is gone and his eyes are demurely lowered.
"You can't fool me," says Nie Mingjue, and Meng Yao's eyes flicker.
Nie Mingjue looks at Lan Xichen, who has still not spoken. Xichen is standing there with Shuoyue still bare in his hand, his eyes dark and dilated as he stares at Meng Yao. In the ruddy half-dark his cheeks appear flushed.
"Ah," he says, and runs his tongue along his lower lip. "Mingjue-xiong, you really should return to the medical tent. I will help A-Yao."
Meng Yao's smile makes a cautious return, curling the corners of his mouth and dimpling his cheeks. He keeps his eyes lowered.
"Thank you, Zewu-jun."
"You saw that," says Nie Mingjue to Lan Xichen, and Lan Xichen's answering smile is bright as a flame. His voice is warm with admiration and something else, something subtle and heated that Nie Mingjue cannot quite place.
"I saw."
"Chifeng-zun, you are bleeding," says Meng Yao still in that soft, smooth voice, a featureless glassy surface of perfect submission. He is standing angled so that Lan Xichen is halfway between them.
"Rest, Mingjue-xiong," says Lan Xichen as the three of them stand together amidst the bodies of their foes. "I will help A-Yao. His father wishes to see him, and he must not keep him waiting."