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Lan Sichen Is Born

Wei Wuxian’s labor began during the twilight hours, when the sky had just begun to glow pink above the Cloud Recesses.

At first, it was only a strange tightness in his lower belly—unfamiliar, but not yet painful. He thought it might pass. After all, his pregnancy had been strange from the start—riddled with flickering spiritual energy, dreamlike heat waves, and sensations that no book in the library could explain.

But when the next wave hit, sharp and low and clenching deep inside his core, he cried out.

Lan Wangji was at his side instantly, his hand steady, his eyes blazing with calm.

“It’s time,” Wuxian gasped, fingers curling into the mattress.

Lan Wangji only nodded and swept him into his arms like he weighed nothing at all.

Cloud Recesses had prepared long in advance. The guest room had been transformed into a serene birthing chamber, and the healer—Madam Ru, a stern cultivator midwife from the outer sect—was already waiting with warmed towels and prepared talismans.

“This will not be like a mortal birth,” she warned. “Your child is infused with spiritual energy. The pain will be deep, and the passage may shift.”

Wuxian barely heard her. Another wave of pain crashed through him, and he doubled over with a strangled groan.

Lan Wangji knelt behind him, guiding him down onto the low couch, supporting him with quiet strength.

“I’ve done worse,” Wuxian muttered between panting breaths. “I’ve literally died. This can’t be harder than death, right?”

Then another contraction seized him and he screamed.

Hours passed in a haze of fire and trembling.

The pain wasn’t just physical—it was spiritual. His core burned as though being remade from the inside. Talismans around the room glowed faint blue. The air pulsed.

Wei Wuxian sobbed into Lan Wangji’s chest, clawing at his robes.

“I can’t—Lan Zhan—I can’t—”

“You can,” Wangji said, his voice hoarse. “You are the strongest person I know. You are not alone.”

And somehow, through the haze, that voice steadied him.

The final push came like a thunderclap—Wuxian screamed, his entire body arching as power surged from his womb to his throat.

And then—

A cry.

A bright, piercing wail that echoed through the cloud-covered peaks.

“It’s a boy,” Madam Ru said softly. “A strong one.”

Wei Wuxian collapsed back, gasping, sweat-soaked and spent. Lan Wangji leaned over him, pressing a trembling kiss to his temple.

“He’s beautiful,” Wangji whispered.

The baby was swaddled in pale blue silk, his tiny face scrunched, his fists flailing with stubborn spirit. A faint shimmer danced around his skin—raw spiritual qi.

Wuxian reached for him with shaking hands. “Let me see him.”

Their son blinked up at him with wide silver-gold eyes—Lan eyes, but the mouth was already set in a cheeky curve that made Wuxian laugh through his tears.

“I’ll call him Sichen,” he said. “Lan Sichen. After peace.”

Wangji bowed his head over them both, his heart in his eyes. “Lan Sichen,” he repeated.

The sect welcomed the child with quiet reverence.

Lan Qiren didn’t smile—but his hands trembled slightly when he held the boy. He turned to Wei Wuxian and, with visible effort, said, “You’ve… done well.”

Jingyi, predictably, refused to coo over the baby. “Babies are loud and weird,” he declared.

But he hovered protectively near the cradle anyway.

Sizhui, on the other hand, held Sichen like porcelain, eyes wide with wonder.

“He looks like you,” he whispered. “But… he feels like both of you.”

Wuxian brushed Sichen’s soft cheek with his knuckle. “He’s everything good I never thought I deserved.”

As his body recovered, Wuxian discovered something else: his own qi had changed.

The act of carrying life had softened his fierce, war-born power. It no longer lashed outward like a blade, but pulsed inward—stronger, deeper, quieter. He found himself calmer, more centered.

And Lan Wangji noticed.

“You are different,” he murmured one night, pressing gentle kisses to Wuxian’s collarbone, his lips trailing down to his chest.

“I feel it too,” Wuxian replied, eyes fluttering shut as Wangji’s mouth moved lower. “It’s like… my soul’s grown roots.”

They made love slowly that night, bodies tangled in soft moonlight, the sleeping baby cradled in the next room. Wuxian opened for him willingly, sighing as Wangji filled him again, their rhythm languid but deep, as if the whole world had narrowed to their breaths and shared heartbeats.

He came with a cry, clenching tight around Wangji, his fingers gripping his lover’s back as pleasure surged through his still-sensitive body.

Wangji followed moments later, breath hitching, pressing his forehead to Wuxian’s.

“We have a family,” Wangji whispered. “We have forever.”

Jiang Cheng came three weeks later.

He didn’t say much. Just stood at the door, holding a carved lotus rattle in a box.

Wuxian blinked in surprise. “You… came.”

“You’re still my brother,” Jiang Cheng muttered. “And he’s my nephew.”

Lan Sichen cooed in his cradle. Jiang Cheng peered in—awkward, stiff—and then, slowly, cracked the tiniest of smiles.

“He looks like you,” he said.

“I hope he gets your temper instead,” Wuxian replied with a grin.

“Gods forbid.”

And just like that, something healed.

It would never be what it was. But it didn’t have to be broken anymore.

That night, Wei Wuxian sat by the window with Lan Sichen asleep in his arms, and Lan Wangji curled around them both.

“I think we’re ready,” Wuxian whispered. “For whatever comes next.”

“Then we will face it,” Wangji said, “together.”

Wuxian kissed their son’s soft forehead, heart full.

He had walked through hell, been called a monster, lived alone in shadows.

Now, he was a father. A beloved. A husband in all but name.

And soon… he would be even more.