Chapter Text
Death, as Zhao Yuanzhou had been helpfully informed, involved a lot of suffering.
He rather liked the idea of eternal torment. Descend into the underworld, meet King Yama—be judged, found wanting, and then writhe in anguish through the eighteen levels of hell. He deserved no less for the things he’d done.
But waking up in a rank dungeon was new.
The only source of illumination was the watery rays of light streaming in through a slit in the stone walls. It picked out the dust motes dancing in the air, the damp lichen slicking every available surface; clearly this place had been left to rot, though the faint bloodstains on the ground indicated the effect was deliberate. How very atmospheric.
With a put-upon sigh, he tilted his head back against the wall. His wrists were bound by thick loops of heavy rop, the coarse material of it digging into his skin with every movement. Had he been awake, he would’ve told his captor to spare themselves the trouble: he had no intention of escaping.
Still, boredom was an impossible enemy to conquer. After a few moments curiosity got the better of him and he called out: “Is there a point to this?”
No response. Then the door – concealed cleverly into the wall; he hadn’t even noticed there was one – creaked open after a pause, allowing a man in. Zhao Yuanzhou felt his eyes go wide.
“You!”
The face of Wen Zongyu’s most loyal lieutenant stared back at him from beneath thick, bushy brows. He was attired simply, in simple robes of slate and shadows. Gone were the adornments and the smug look; he looked exhausted, bags carved deep and dark under his eyes.
“Me,” he answered, and closed the door behind him. Zhao Yuanzhou eyed him warily.
“You’re a strange choice for a tormentor.” Of all people, he would’ve expected the guards of hell to don Zhuo Yichen’s likeness. Maybe even Zhao Wan’er. Both options were equally terrible, though not undeserved. Perhaps he should be relieved it was someone he had no qualms murdering, though he wondered what it said about him that the thought came as a minor consolation.
Wen Zongyu’s lieutenant tilted his head. Silent, still. Zhao Yuanzhou wondered if it was deliberate – if it was part of an elaborate strategy to break his will and force him to grovel.
Shame it wouldn’t work on him. “I must confess,” Zhao Yuanzhou added, not without gleeful relish, “I forgot your name.”
That earned him a blank look.
“We aren’t acquainted,” said his captor, finally. “You have no reason to know my name.”
Zhao Yuanzhou blinked at him. “Oh, no. We very much are. You brainwashed and manipulated an innocent thirteen-year-old, didn’t you? Turned him into a hidden dagger while we weren’t looking. None of us would’ve suspected him. Quite clever, really.”
“What,” Wen Zongyu’s lieutenant said flatly. Everything about him, Zhao Yuanzhou was coming to realise, seemed oddly muted. Indistinct. Like trying to make out blurred shapes through an opaque window. It was nothing like what he remembered of the man; that, and the confusion…
“This is the part where you tell me your uncanny resemblance to an acquaintance of mine is a coincidence,” Zhao Yuanzhou said lightly, ignoring the growing unease in his gut. “Isn’t it?”
The answer came without hesitation, or a single trace of irony. “Yes.”
He would’ve dearly loved to drop his face into his hands, but alas, the rope. Zhao Yuanzhou settled instead for a theatrical sigh.
“So how should I address you?”
The man stared at him for a moment more, then said, “Hanya Si.”
“Hanya, like the bird?” It was thematically consistent, he could grudgingly concede, with the dark robes and feather-like updo. “Surely it’s an alias. Your mother cannot possibly have hated you enough to name you after the jackdaw.”
Hanya Si inclined his head in a nod, unoffended. “Have you heard of the Wufeng?”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific than that.”
“We’re an organisation,” Hanya Si said. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us.”
Nothing about this was adding up. Hanya Si, Wufeng, the distinct absence of fire and tortured screams of the damned… The seeds of doubt from earlier had flowered into full-blown suspicion, needling uneasily at him. Zhao Yuanzhou had a sneaking suspicion he knew where this was heading, and he disliked it immensely.
“Am I dead?” he asked, already resigned to the answer.
“If our physicians had been any less skilled, you would be.” There was something chilling about the way Hanya Si said it: matter-of-fact and devoid of sentiment. “As it were, we found you toeing the line between life and death and were able to bring you back.”
“Found…?”
Last Zhao Yuanzhou recalled, he was evaporating into a curtain of fine golden mist. There would’ve been no corpse to find, much less bring back in any material sense.
“You should know that better than I,” Hanya Si said. “You are an orphan. You had no home. We found you, and brought you here.”
“So you just picked me up off the streets,” Zhao Yuanzhou clarified, almost laughing at the thought. “Saw an invalid and decided that I’d be your next charity case?”
That did get him a smile, small and fleeting. “Not charity,” he said. “Project. Operative.”
Zhao Yuanzhou stared at him for a moment, baffled. Then it clicked.
“A crime syndicate,” he said, and he couldn’t decide whether to be amused or irritated. “I’ve been picked up by a crime syndicate. Surely you’ve better options than someone recently rescued from the brink of death, unless…”
He trailed off.
“Bait. You want me to be bait.”
Hanya Si’s stare was piercing. “You’re very observant.”
“Thank you,” Zhao Yuanzhou said, not ungraciously, “but I’d really rather not. Just kill me now and be done with it; I won’t suffer the indignity of being a shield.”
“Not necessarily.” Hanya Si stepped closer, and Zhao Yuanzhou’s eyes drifted to the dagger at his belt, calculating the odds of seizing it successfully. If Hanya Si noticed, he gave no indication. “I have no desire to treat human lives like toys, as much as my superiors may disagree. I cannot promise a level playing field, but I can give you a fighting chance.”
Was that the faintest glimmer of guilt in his eyes? Fascinating. Zhao Yuanzhou knew weakness when he saw one; he latched onto it like a dog with a bone, determined to gnaw on it for all that he was worth. “Go on,” he said silkily. “Who exactly do you need protecting?”
A flash of something complicated crossed Hanya Si’s face. There it is. “One of my operatives,” he said quietly. “She’s being sent into a death trap. The outcome will either be death or success.”
Momentarily forgetting his wrists were bound, Zhao Yuanzhou tried to make a wide, encompassing gesture, and winced as the rope bit reprimandingly into his skin. Hanya Si’s face remained stoic as ever, but his voice was a touch apologetic when he said, “You’ll be untied soon.”
As if he could get far even with his hands free. “Whatever puts you at ease, Hanya Si. So what mission is this, exactly, that the stakes are so high?”
“Surely you’ve heard of the Gong family,” Hanya Si said. Then, noticing the look of incomprehension on Zhao Yuanzhou’s face, elaborated: “They’re a very reclusive, very wealthy family, influential enough to exert almost as much if not more power than some magistrates.”
“And Wufeng doesn’t like that,” he said thoughtfully. Ah, if only Wen Xiao were here. This sounded like the setup for one of her many absurd novels; she’d probably get a kick out of it. “How exactly does your operative intend to infiltrate their residence?”
“Every so often they open their doors to brides from the outside. This is one of those times. You,” Hanya Si’s gaze grew intent, boring into his, “are to accompany Yun Weishan and divert any unwanted attention from her if necessary, even at the expense of your life.”
And there it was: the real reason he’d been spared the torments of hell. Or perhaps not. He hadn’t yet decided whether all this was real or an elaborate ruse, but it was really too intriguing not to keep going.
One minor issue. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed,” Zhao Yuanzhou said lightly, “but I’m not a bride.”
A wry smirk twisted across Hanya Si’s face. “Perhaps that’s for the best. Save the bride selection for our trained assassins; you’ll be in less danger that way.”
Zhao Yuanzhou gave him a look that he hoped conveyed but I’m still expected to sacrifice myself for her anyway, so what difference does it make? Out loud, he only said, “I see.”
Hanya Si cleared his throat, a little awkwardly. “… Yun Weishan has had training. You do not. There’s no time – the selection is mere days from now, but I have an identity and the necessary documents prepared. How good are you at lying?”
The bluntness of the question caught Zhao Yuanzhou by surprise. He couldn’t help a soft breath of laughter. “Passable, but this one is willing to learn.”
“Good. It may be the only thing standing between you and certain death. Whoever you were prior is long dead –” which tickled Zhao Yuanzhou, really, because Hanya Si was right and he didn’t even know it – “and it’s best that you forget your past life entirely. At present you’re Xie Xiyang, the young master of the Xie family. Your father sent you into the Gong residence in hopes of earning their favour, maybe a little coin. With the family business at a standstill and your mother struck by illness, this was the only solution he could think of.”
A brief pause. He let the story sink in – watched it take shape in his mind, a landscape brought to life by an expert’s deft brush. A boy young and naive, a father emboldened by desperation… He could almost taste the sharp tang of despair on his tongue. Truly, the vicissitudes of human lives were vast and varied.
Once yao, always yao. Perhaps this body was different, but some instincts weren’t so easily eroded.
“Why Xiyang?” Zhao Yuanzhou asked. He knew where it was from, of course. He’d been there when the poem was written. “‘The setting sun is boundlessly beautiful; only, dusk is near’ – you are troubled, Hanya Si.”
The look Hanya Si gave him was a weighted one. “You’re well-read for a street urchin.”
“You flatter me. I could say the same of you, an assassin.”
Silence fell like a butcher’s knife. Zhao Yuanzhou gave Hanya Si a small, pleasant smile. “Let’s not waste time on pretenses, Hanya Si. You’re an assassin. I, regretfully, am not. You want someone in the Gong residence dead – you want their family dismantled and brought to ruin. I am merely a tool in the proceedings, one to be discarded early in the game. As a man, I won’t be selected as a bride, and as an agent chosen by Wufeng, I won’t walk out of the Gong compound alive. Am I correct?”
His words cracked through the room like a whip. Satisfaction was a dull blade twisting between his ribs: there was little gratification to be had in knowing he was a lamb sent to be slaughtered. At least he had a choice the first time around. This was a different story entirely.
No response, still. Zhao Yuanzhou looked Hanya Si straight in the eye. “I will not die. Not by your hand, and certainly not by the Gong family’s. If I do, it will be by my own, hmm?” He leaned forward with a smirk. Ah, if only he still had his powers. This mortal vessel was infuriatingly empty. “And maybe I’ll bring down your precious Yun Weishan along with me. Rat her out to the family. What will they do, I wonder?”
The cool slate of Hanya Si’s gaze had hardened into a metallic point. “You will not,” he challenged, but he sounded uncertain. “You wouldn’t sabotage your chance at living.”
“Oh,” Zhao Yuanzhou said sweetly, “I would.”
Someone had posed a similar question to him, once. Is there no other way? he heard Xiao Zhuo’s voice ask. Soft, sweet. Youthful in all the ways the world refused to let him be.
Regret was a merciless beast, sinking its teeth into his marrow. He closed his eyes briefly. Willed himself to see past the pain, the yearning, the sorrow.
“All I ask is this. I will see to it that Yun Weishan completes her mission, dead or alive – but I refuse to die. After, you will give me the antidote to whatever poison you put in me, and you will let me go.”
He smiled at the flicker of shock crossing Hanya Si’s face, quickly stifled. “You have no other way of ensuring my compliance,” Zhao Yuanzhou said cheerfully, and leaned back against the wall again, the very picture of ease. “It’s poison. It always is.”
Silence, again. Hanya Si seemed to be appraising him, grey eyes thoughtful.
“Under other circumstances,” he said slowly, “you would’ve made a good Mei.”
Zhao Yuanzhou had no idea what that meant. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said breezily. “Thank you.”
The soft, metallic hiss of a blade sliding free. Hanya Si had drawn his dagger from its sheath and reached forward, sawing efficiently through Zhao Yuanzhou’s bindings. The ropes fell away, baring his chafed skin to the cool air.
“We begin,” Hanya Si said.