At last Mo Xuanyu calls the name of the fabled demon, the great scourge, the Yiling Patriarch. After hours of work and nearly draining himself dry of blood, carefully drawing the array as detailed in the notes, the moment has finally arrived to bring forth the villainous ghoul.
The rush he feels as the name passes his lips is almost euphoric. If he's done this correctly, it will be the last thing his soul ever does... but for the sake of revenge, what does that matter? Everyone who dabbles in demonic cultivation knows their time is short and their soul could be torn asunder with one wrong move. If nothing else, this ensures that his final moments will be useful for something.
He feels the rush of energy gathering around him... then suddenly a pain much greater than even the gashes on his arms rips through him, as if his very being was getting torn in half. But that shouldn't be right. It's supposed to be just his soul, not his body--
Before Mo Xuanyu can think any more on it, an impact strikes his back, forcing the air from his lungs. He gives a sharp cough, dazed, and it takes him a moment to recover himself. He's no longer sitting in the array, but seems to have been blown back against the wall of his room somehow. And looking further past the array, on the other side of the room, he notices the shape of another figure who definitely wasn't there a moment ago...
The last thing Wei Wuxian remembers, if it could even be called remembering, is the end of an interminable grey. Black, then white, then oddly, awareness, a sense of being pulled somewhere, of settling into a space around him.
He feels numb, but numb means having a physical form. That can't be right. he thinks, and is surprised he can think. It takes him a moment to recognize that he draws breath, and that his senses have returned. The bombardment of noise and sensation is disorienting, overwhelming after nothingness for so long - he doesn't know how long, or how one can be aware of nothing.
He cracks opens his eyes and sees more white. The sun is directly in his face. He tries to roll away from it and feels his - his? - body cooperate, and when he tries to push himself up from the cold ground, his hand lands in something damp.
It's blood, and there's much more of it, the coppery stench hanging heavy in the air. There's also a receding hint of resentful energy, a mix of cloying sweetness and ash. Grunting and slightly unsteady, he lurches to his knees to further examine his surroundings, and it's then that he notices the array covering the middle of the floor. An array that he himself designed, he realizes with dawning understanding.
He follows the lines with his eyes. They're almost perfect, but clearly drawn in haste and with a slightly shaky hand. Understandable, considering the required blood loss. However, when he looks towards the end of the top-most curve, he notices he's not alone. The man sits slumped against the wall, his face painted white and red in the unsettling effect of a hanging ghost. The scent of resentful energy is strongest in his direction, and he has bloody gashes on his arm, oozing sluggishly. He is clearly the caster. But he's also still alive, in his body, and at least somewhat cognizant, judging from the look in his eyes.
"Oh," Wei Wuxian says, staring curiously and with no small amount of confusion. Clearly, many mistakes have been made here, but he doesn't even know where to begin figuring out where, or whose. "Well," he continues, putting a hand on his chin, a grin threatening the corners of his lips. "This is interesting, it looks as if you're still here! But, I think you've got the wrong person - I'm hardly a vicious ghost."
When the other man sits up, Mo Xuanyu feels a chill run down his spine. Not from the awkwardly-done makeup, or from the expression, but because that... that's his body. The voice isn't quite right (though has he really ever heard his own voice?) but the face is definitely the one that he sees when he looks at his reflection, and the makeup is what he remembers putting on this morning, now that he's reminded of it. But if that's his body... what about the body he's in right now?
His gaze falls to his arms, and sure enough the gashes are still there, still aching. He touches fingers to his face; they come back with white powder.
This is probably his body, too.
The notes didn't say anything about this.
But no matter what's happening here, whether the image in front of him is an illusion or his own sense of being corporeal is a lie, there's something he needs to confirm before he figures out whatever else he might do. "Are you..." His voice shakes a little, fear and awe and no small amount of hope, "... the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wuxian?"
"Of course," he replies, the grin breaking free, but his gaze on the man before him is sharp, assessing. How this one came to be in possession of his notes, notes that he'd long since destroyed, was something to be investigated. "The grandmaster of demonic cultivation, scourge of Qishan, deflowerer of virgins and all that nonsense. I assume this is what you intended, at least. Although-"
When he feels something flake away from his face, he pauses, holds his hand out in front of him. A strange sense of dissonance settles over him, his skin prickling. This is definitely not his hand - it's too small, the skin too pale and lacking the subtle scars that should be there, the products of many a failed invention.
The palm is also covered in powder and rouge. More crumbles away when he rubs his cheeks, frowning, before a thought occurs to him. It made perfect sense that this form wasn't his own - after all, he'd been entirely ripped apart, and one couldn't create something out of nothing. However, if the the one who had performed the body sacrificing ritual was still present, soul intact, and Wei Wuxian wasn't occupying his body, then it was obvious something had gone horribly wrong that even he himself couldn't have foreseen.
Just how wrong, though, was the question.
Even though the dwelling they're in, if it could be called that, is little more than a dilapidated shack, he figures it can't hurt to ask. "Is there a mirror, young master summoner?" he inquires of the man before him, his tone about a hair shy of being truly mocking. "I'd like to see something for myself."
From the moment the confirmation hits his ears, a grin starts to spread across Mo Xuanyu's face. It widens, and widens, and widens some more until his expression is far too ecstatic to look anything but deranged. Even Wei Wuxian's tone is lost on him, as Mo Xuanyu suddenly gives a sharp laugh.
"It worked! It worked, it really worked!"
He bends over at his waist, holding his sides as if already strained from laughing too much, but then more laughter follows, just as unrestrained and unsettling as his expression.
"Now they'll regret it! Now they'll regret everything! No, they won't even be able to regret it because they'll be dead! They'll be so utterly destroyed that their spirits won't even be able to regret it!"
Mo Xuanyu suddenly dives towards a small, decrepit desk along the side of the room, and when he turns towards Wei Wuxian and straightens up slightly, he's holding a bronze mirror in his hands. He holds it out as if presenting a gift to someone highly honored, head bowed. "A mirror, O Great Yiling Patriarch!"
The laughter catches him off-guard, but Wei Wuxian doesn't get a chance to reply before he's greeted with himself - or, more accurately, the very image of the man before him - staring back. "Huh," he says, poking at his face, his eyebrows reaching for his hairline in surprise. In all of his research, he had never run across anything suggesting even the merest possibility of duplicating an entire body.
The man before him is still bowed in silent supplication. He sighs, frowning, folding his arms. He had heard of these strange devotees - both imitators and worshippers - even before he died. To be regarded with this kind of deference made his skin crawl.
That, and the man is clearly mad, but being willing to sacrifice one's body and soul to bring the Yiling Patriarch, of all people, back to this world, wouldn't one have to be?
"Alright, enough, none of that." He reaches out and presses on the edge of the mirror, coaxing the other man to lower it. There is also the matter of what, precisely, he has been summoned to do. Exacting revenge is the most reasonable guess, given this ritual's historical precedent, but on who, and why?
"Well! I have no idea what you did," he continues, shrugging. "But, before we get into that, why not tell this wicked one your name, young master summoner. Also, who has wronged you so grievously that you were willing to go to such lengths?"
Still holding the mirror in his hands he does his best to cup them in a proper bow, a signal of one possibly trained in sword cultivation.
"Mo Xuanyu, of--oh, no, I'm--of Mo Village."
His voice sounds a little hesitant as he says the location, as if unsure of himself, but he quickly picks up steam again.
"And--I want revenge. On all of them. On--ah--"
He pulls up his right sleeve, showing off a pair of gashes on his wrist.
"This one is for my cousin. Mo Ziyuan. He's always yelling at me and making fun of me and stealing my things and--and yesterday he stole a few of my tools, that I'd tried to hold onto, and he wouldn't give them back, and, and his parents--his father, and--"
He pulls back his other sleeve to show off the two gashes there, and indicates the deepest one.
"--his mother. This one is for my aunt. They told me that it didn't matter, to let him do it. But they always let him get away with these things. They ridicule me too; my aunt always say it's my fault Ziyuan didn't become a cultivator. She makes everyone else bully me, and says terrible things about my mother. And this one is for A-Tong. He always helps Ziyuan, and he makes fun of me and says mean things to me. I can't do anything to them though. Sometimes when I hear them, or see them, I... I-I just, can't think anymore, and, I just go crazy... I hate them so much, I hate them I hate them I hate them--"
The more he speaks the more his pupils dilate. His voice softens to a ragged whisper as he starts digging his fingers into one of the cuts, clearly not fully aware of what he's doing.
So it is revenge, as he assumed. He should have, however, have known on who already. The fact that he didn't is yet another mystery, another fault in the ritual. But Wei Wuxian is quiet throughout the disjointed explanation, attentive, even though his stomach gradually sinks with the details. He's getting the distinct sense that this Mo Xuanyu - who is, perhaps, a cultivator in a more traditional sense as well - desires nothing less than for these people to meet their end at the Yiling Patriarch's hands.
He folds his arms. That's certainly a bit of an issue - he himself has nothing against these people, however terribly they seem to have treated Mo Xuanyu - and despite his reputation, he's never made a habit of killing without provocation. He'd even been well-behaved in death! However, even with the ever-increasing list of discrepancies, there is no reason to suspect that he isn't still subject to the consequences of the unfulfilled curse.
Especially considering the presence of the other man's cuts, which he's currently aggravating as he trails off, his voice barely audible now. "Alright!" Wei Wuxian says, a bit above normal volume, intended to get Mo Xuanyu's attention and snap him out of his trance-like state. "One thing at a time. You've already lost a lot of blood, so don't mess with those," he continues, pointing at the lacerations. How Mo Xuanyu is even still standing is a marvel in itself.
He's about to speak again when he hears voices in the distance, or thinks he does, and snaps his mouth shut. If they come this way, that could be a problem.
It's enough to snap him back somewhat. It cuts off Mo Xuanyu's mutterings as his entire body jolts and he looks up at Wei Wuxian, expression slightly lost as if he doesn't understand what he's seeing. When he points out the wounds Mo Xuanyu's gaze falls again and he stares at them for a moment, then slowly pulls his fingers away from his wrist to leave the cuts further alone. Most of his fingertips have dried blood from drawing the array earlier, but now the ones he was just using have fresh blood on them as well.
He doesn't get the chance to say anything further before he too hears the voices. Suddenly any composure Wei Wuxian's scolding returned to him is gone again, and he physically recoils from the door as if it had been forced open.
"It's him." His voice is a whisper again. "It's him. It's him. It's him, it's him, it's him--" Abruptly Mo Xuanyu gives a shriek, not unlike one scared completely out of his wits. The dive he made for the mirror before was nothing compared to how he nearly launches himself now into one corner of his room. He scrambles through the mess there as if hoping to bury himself and hide from the owners of the voices--or one of them, Mo Ziyuan in particular.
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At last Mo Xuanyu calls the name of the fabled demon, the great scourge, the Yiling Patriarch. After hours of work and nearly draining himself dry of blood, carefully drawing the array as detailed in the notes, the moment has finally arrived to bring forth the villainous ghoul.
The rush he feels as the name passes his lips is almost euphoric. If he's done this correctly, it will be the last thing his soul ever does... but for the sake of revenge, what does that matter? Everyone who dabbles in demonic cultivation knows their time is short and their soul could be torn asunder with one wrong move. If nothing else, this ensures that his final moments will be useful for something.
He feels the rush of energy gathering around him... then suddenly a pain much greater than even the gashes on his arms rips through him, as if his very being was getting torn in half. But that shouldn't be right. It's supposed to be just his soul, not his body--
Before Mo Xuanyu can think any more on it, an impact strikes his back, forcing the air from his lungs. He gives a sharp cough, dazed, and it takes him a moment to recover himself. He's no longer sitting in the array, but seems to have been blown back against the wall of his room somehow. And looking further past the array, on the other side of the room, he notices the shape of another figure who definitely wasn't there a moment ago...
no subject
He feels numb, but numb means having a physical form. That can't be right. he thinks, and is surprised he can think. It takes him a moment to recognize that he draws breath, and that his senses have returned. The bombardment of noise and sensation is disorienting, overwhelming after nothingness for so long - he doesn't know how long, or how one can be aware of nothing.
He cracks opens his eyes and sees more white. The sun is directly in his face. He tries to roll away from it and feels his - his? - body cooperate, and when he tries to push himself up from the cold ground, his hand lands in something damp.
It's blood, and there's much more of it, the coppery stench hanging heavy in the air. There's also a receding hint of resentful energy, a mix of cloying sweetness and ash. Grunting and slightly unsteady, he lurches to his knees to further examine his surroundings, and it's then that he notices the array covering the middle of the floor. An array that he himself designed, he realizes with dawning understanding.
He follows the lines with his eyes. They're almost perfect, but clearly drawn in haste and with a slightly shaky hand. Understandable, considering the required blood loss. However, when he looks towards the end of the top-most curve, he notices he's not alone. The man sits slumped against the wall, his face painted white and red in the unsettling effect of a hanging ghost. The scent of resentful energy is strongest in his direction, and he has bloody gashes on his arm, oozing sluggishly. He is clearly the caster. But he's also still alive, in his body, and at least somewhat cognizant, judging from the look in his eyes.
"Oh," Wei Wuxian says, staring curiously and with no small amount of confusion. Clearly, many mistakes have been made here, but he doesn't even know where to begin figuring out where, or whose. "Well," he continues, putting a hand on his chin, a grin threatening the corners of his lips. "This is interesting, it looks as if you're still here! But, I think you've got the wrong person - I'm hardly a vicious ghost."
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His gaze falls to his arms, and sure enough the gashes are still there, still aching. He touches fingers to his face; they come back with white powder.
This is probably his body, too.
The notes didn't say anything about this.
But no matter what's happening here, whether the image in front of him is an illusion or his own sense of being corporeal is a lie, there's something he needs to confirm before he figures out whatever else he might do. "Are you..." His voice shakes a little, fear and awe and no small amount of hope, "... the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wuxian?"
no subject
When he feels something flake away from his face, he pauses, holds his hand out in front of him. A strange sense of dissonance settles over him, his skin prickling. This is definitely not his hand - it's too small, the skin too pale and lacking the subtle scars that should be there, the products of many a failed invention.
The palm is also covered in powder and rouge. More crumbles away when he rubs his cheeks, frowning, before a thought occurs to him. It made perfect sense that this form wasn't his own - after all, he'd been entirely ripped apart, and one couldn't create something out of nothing. However, if the the one who had performed the body sacrificing ritual was still present, soul intact, and Wei Wuxian wasn't occupying his body, then it was obvious something had gone horribly wrong that even he himself couldn't have foreseen.
Just how wrong, though, was the question.
Even though the dwelling they're in, if it could be called that, is little more than a dilapidated shack, he figures it can't hurt to ask. "Is there a mirror, young master summoner?" he inquires of the man before him, his tone about a hair shy of being truly mocking. "I'd like to see something for myself."
no subject
"It worked! It worked, it really worked!"
He bends over at his waist, holding his sides as if already strained from laughing too much, but then more laughter follows, just as unrestrained and unsettling as his expression.
"Now they'll regret it! Now they'll regret everything! No, they won't even be able to regret it because they'll be dead! They'll be so utterly destroyed that their spirits won't even be able to regret it!"
Mo Xuanyu suddenly dives towards a small, decrepit desk along the side of the room, and when he turns towards Wei Wuxian and straightens up slightly, he's holding a bronze mirror in his hands. He holds it out as if presenting a gift to someone highly honored, head bowed. "A mirror, O Great Yiling Patriarch!"
The unhinged grin is still on his face.
no subject
The man before him is still bowed in silent supplication. He sighs, frowning, folding his arms. He had heard of these strange devotees - both imitators and worshippers - even before he died. To be regarded with this kind of deference made his skin crawl.
That, and the man is clearly mad, but being willing to sacrifice one's body and soul to bring the Yiling Patriarch, of all people, back to this world, wouldn't one have to be?
"Alright, enough, none of that." He reaches out and presses on the edge of the mirror, coaxing the other man to lower it. There is also the matter of what, precisely, he has been summoned to do. Exacting revenge is the most reasonable guess, given this ritual's historical precedent, but on who, and why?
"Well! I have no idea what you did," he continues, shrugging. "But, before we get into that, why not tell this wicked one your name, young master summoner. Also, who has wronged you so grievously that you were willing to go to such lengths?"
no subject
Still holding the mirror in his hands he does his best to cup them in a proper bow, a signal of one possibly trained in sword cultivation.
"Mo Xuanyu, of--oh, no, I'm--of Mo Village."
His voice sounds a little hesitant as he says the location, as if unsure of himself, but he quickly picks up steam again.
"And--I want revenge. On all of them. On--ah--"
He pulls up his right sleeve, showing off a pair of gashes on his wrist.
"This one is for my cousin. Mo Ziyuan. He's always yelling at me and making fun of me and stealing my things and--and yesterday he stole a few of my tools, that I'd tried to hold onto, and he wouldn't give them back, and, and his parents--his father, and--"
He pulls back his other sleeve to show off the two gashes there, and indicates the deepest one.
"--his mother. This one is for my aunt. They told me that it didn't matter, to let him do it. But they always let him get away with these things. They ridicule me too; my aunt always say it's my fault Ziyuan didn't become a cultivator. She makes everyone else bully me, and says terrible things about my mother. And this one is for A-Tong. He always helps Ziyuan, and he makes fun of me and says mean things to me. I can't do anything to them though. Sometimes when I hear them, or see them, I... I-I just, can't think anymore, and, I just go crazy... I hate them so much, I hate them I hate them I hate them--"
The more he speaks the more his pupils dilate. His voice softens to a ragged whisper as he starts digging his fingers into one of the cuts, clearly not fully aware of what he's doing.
wanders back in here
He folds his arms. That's certainly a bit of an issue - he himself has nothing against these people, however terribly they seem to have treated Mo Xuanyu - and despite his reputation, he's never made a habit of killing without provocation. He'd even been well-behaved in death! However, even with the ever-increasing list of discrepancies, there is no reason to suspect that he isn't still subject to the consequences of the unfulfilled curse.
Especially considering the presence of the other man's cuts, which he's currently aggravating as he trails off, his voice barely audible now. "Alright!" Wei Wuxian says, a bit above normal volume, intended to get Mo Xuanyu's attention and snap him out of his trance-like state. "One thing at a time. You've already lost a lot of blood, so don't mess with those," he continues, pointing at the lacerations. How Mo Xuanyu is even still standing is a marvel in itself.
He's about to speak again when he hears voices in the distance, or thinks he does, and snaps his mouth shut. If they come this way, that could be a problem.
waves!!
He doesn't get the chance to say anything further before he too hears the voices. Suddenly any composure Wei Wuxian's scolding returned to him is gone again, and he physically recoils from the door as if it had been forced open.
"It's him." His voice is a whisper again. "It's him. It's him. It's him, it's him, it's him--" Abruptly Mo Xuanyu gives a shriek, not unlike one scared completely out of his wits. The dive he made for the mirror before was nothing compared to how he nearly launches himself now into one corner of his room. He scrambles through the mess there as if hoping to bury himself and hide from the owners of the voices--or one of them, Mo Ziyuan in particular.