Love has no face.

Lan Xichen's heart thundered against his ribs, each beat a frantic drum of dread reverberating through his chest. Instinct screamed in his gut—a primal warning he had never ignored. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. The certainty gnawed at his composure, icy fingers of fear creeping up his spine and chilling him to the marrow.

He drew closer to the sealed chamber, where sinister whispers seeped through the cracks, curling around his mind like phantom serpents. The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, broken only by the dull thud of his knuckles against the heavy door.

"Open the door. Now!" His voice, usually a pillar of calm, shattered with raw urgency.

A guttural growl rumbled from within—a sound more beast than man, vibrating with menace. It slithered beneath his skin, sending an involuntary shudder down his spine.

Xichen squared his shoulders and stepped into the gloom, eyes narrowed, senses razor-sharp. In the half-light, he caught sight of Wen Xu's face twisted into a smirk—a grotesque parody of the man he once knew. Malice glinted in Wen Xu's eyes, stoking the embers of Xichen's anger into a blazing inferno.

"What are you doing?" Xichen demanded, his voice trembling with barely contained fury.

Wen Xu's laughter echoed through the chamber, cold and mocking—a discordant melody that clawed at Xichen's soul.

The laughter cracked something deep within Xichen, a fragile dam bursting under the weight of anguish and rage. He didn't think—couldn't think. His body moved on a torrent of raw instinct. In a single, desperate motion, his sword flashed—a deadly arc of silver and fury—ending Wen Xu's life in an explosion of crimson that splattered violently against the cold stone wall. The horrific, strangled gasp that tore from Wen Xu's throat was devoured by the echoing silence, a silence so thick and oppressive it pressed against Xichen's chest, suffocating him. The air itself seemed to tremble, heavy with the scent of blood and the taste of fear.

Then, through the blinding haze of panic and wrath, Xichen's world narrowed. He saw him.

Wangji.

His brother's face was a portrait of agony—contorted by pain, streaked with tears, eyes wide and shattered, fixed on Xichen with a look that pierced deeper than any blade. The sight ripped through Xichen's soul, leaving a raw, gaping wound that bled regret, horror, and heartbreak. In that instant, the weight of what he'd done crashed down, threatening to crush him beneath a tidal wave of guilt.

Around him, the world was chaos—a hellish inferno of clashing steel and desperate screams. Yet none of it mattered. Xichen's mind was a storm of grief and fury, his gaze locked on the grotesque figure of Wen Chao. Bathed in a hellish, flickering glow, Wen Chao loomed like a demon, his twisted delight unmistakable as he raised a bottle of acid, the glass catching the firelight with a sickly gleam. His eyes glinted with sadistic pleasure, a soul utterly consumed by cruelty.

The chamber seemed to hold its breath. The silence was deafening, a vacuum of dread as Wen Chao tipped the bottle. The acid poured with a slow, deliberate malice. The sound—liquid hissing against flesh—was a nightmare given voice, a sickening, searing sizzle that carved a path of terror through Xichen's mind. Each drop was a knife, each scream a wound, and Xichen stood powerless, his heart breaking anew with every breath.

Wangji's scream tore through the chamber—a raw, primal wail that reverberated off the stone and lodged itself in Xichen's soul. The sound was agony made manifest, a cry that would echo in his memory until his last breath.

When Xichen looked upon his brother, the sight nearly undid him. Wangji's face, once so tranquil, was now a mask of torment, marred and twisted by the acid's cruel burn. It felt as if the world itself had been torn open, the air sucked from Xichen's lungs, leaving him gasping in a void of horror and disbelief. How could anyone—how could those Wen monsters—do this to his brother? Fury and helplessness warred in his chest, each breath a struggle against the urge to collapse.

A wave of dizziness crashed over him, blinding him with a searing white light. His mind, usually so calm and steady, became a storm of chaos and despair, thoughts spinning out of control.

Through the haze, his uncle's voice broke through—steady, grounding, a lifeline in the maelstrom. Rage surged anew; Xichen hurled himself at Wen Chao, his sword a flash of retribution, severing the monsters head in a single, merciless stroke. But even vengeance brought no relief.

He saw Qiren's face, drawn with worry, eyes fixed on Wangji as he knelt to pour spiritual energy into his wounded nephew. The sight spurred Xichen to action—he could not falter now. He watched, hands trembling, as Qiren wrapped Wangji in his own robe, the gentle fabric a stark, almost cruel contrast to the ravaged flesh beneath.

Relief mingled with despair as Xichen took the water from Qiren, pouring it with trembling care over Wangji's burns, desperate to soothe even a fraction of his brother's pain. Then he gathered Wangji into his arms, the weight of his love and fear almost unbearable, and fled towards the healer's pavilion. The wind howled around them, a dirge that seemed to mirror the storm inside his heart.

He crashed through the pavilion doors, the sound a desperate plea for help. Healers rushed to Wangji's side, their hands swift, their faces grave. Xichen paced the room like a trapped animal, his heart a stone in his chest, every word from the healers a dagger of dread. The air was thick with the scent of herbs and medicine—fragile threads of hope in a world gone dark.

Tears streamed down his face—grief, rage, helplessness all spilling out in silent surrender. Still, he clung to hope, to the vision of Wangji standing beside him once more, whole and unbroken.

"Uncle," he choked out, voice raw, "he will be alright, won't he?"

Qiren's hand came to rest on his shoulder, steady and warm. "He will," his uncle promised, voice firm despite the exhaustion etched in his features. "He will."

Xichen held onto those words with every shred of faith he had left.

The night stretched on, the healers' murmurs and the soft rustling of robes filling the endless hours. The faint scent of incense drifted through the air, mingling with the hum of spiritual energy. Xichen, Qiren, and the disciples watched in silence, their faces carved with fear and hope, every heartbeat a prayer.

Xichen's heart thundered in his chest, a frantic drumbeat in the hush of the pavilion. Lantern light flickered across the wooden walls, casting trembling shadows that danced with every gust of wind. He knelt at Wangji's side, hands shaking, watching the rise and fall of his brother's chest beneath the blankets, clinging to hope as the world held its breath.