The Cloud Recesses had always been a bastion of solemnity. Rules carved into stone tablets, lanterns lit in perfectly measured order, paths swept daily by disciples who dared not even sneeze too loudly. It was a sacred place, and Lan Qiren prided himself on keeping it that way.

Which was why it was shocking—no, catastrophic—when he stood at the gates that morning with a clipboard in hand, muttering under his breath as if he had been cursed by the Heavens.

“This… is not what I signed up for,” he grumbled, squinting down at the parchment that had been delivered the week prior. “Team-building retreat, they said. Cultivator leadership conference, they said. Strengthening bonds through activity, they said. How was I supposed to know reality television was involved?”

Behind him, Lan Wangji stood silent as ever, stoic in his white robes, expression unreadable. If he felt any sort of way about the word television, he did not show it.

Meanwhile, down the mountain path, the so-called participants were arriving in varying levels of enthusiasm—or complete lack thereof.

Wei Wuxian waved as though he were arriving at a festival. “Lan Zhan! Uncle Lan! Wow, I didn’t know we’d be filming! Look at me—I should’ve worn a brighter robe. Do you think the camera will catch my good side?”

“There is no good side,” Jiang Cheng muttered from behind him, lugging a bag that looked suspiciously overstuffed for a simple retreat. “Wei Wuxian, shut up before I throw you off the mountain.”

“You’d miss me if I died tragically in the mountains,” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully. “Anyway, don’t you think this is exciting? Lan Qiren actually letting us do something that isn’t copying rules until our wrists fall off?”

“This isn’t exciting,” Jiang Cheng snapped. “This is humiliating. Who even watches shows like this? I have a sect to run!”

“You mean, a tent to run,” Wei Wuxian corrected with a wicked grin. “Because look—” He pointed toward a row of pitched tents that disciples had clearly been forced to erect hastily, each bearing a painted banner with the words:

Cloud Recesses: Cultivator Idol Edition!

“—that’s where we’re staying.”

The collective silence that followed was so deafening that even the crickets seemed to hold their breath.

Jin Ling, dragging along his sword like a reluctant puppy, was the first to break it. “You mean… we’re not even staying in the guest quarters?”

Lan Qiren’s eyebrow twitched. “Team-building requires discomfort. You will learn humility in these tents.”

“Humility or frostbite,” Wei Wuxian said brightly. “But hey, at least we get banners! Can we keep them as souvenirs?”

“No,” Lan Qiren barked, making three disciples flinch in the distance.

Jiang Cheng crossed his arms, glaring at the tents as though they had personally offended him. “I’m not sharing a tent.”

“You will share,” Lan Qiren said firmly. “That is the point of the activity.”

“I don’t care,” Jiang Cheng retorted, his tone rising. “I’m Sect Leader Jiang. I am not sleeping next to Wei Wuxian’s snoring, or his talking, or whatever other weird things he does in his sleep. I’ll pitch my own.”

“You will not pitch your own,” Lan Qiren thundered, looking as though he were moments from combusting.

From the sidelines, Wei Wuxian raised a hand meekly. “Actually, I’d like to clarify that I don’t snore.”

“Yes, you do,” Jiang Cheng snapped.

“No, I don’t,” Wei Wuxian said, scandalized.

Lan Wangji, silent until now, murmured softly, “Mn.”

Wei Wuxian turned to him with wide eyes. “Lan Zhan! Even you’re siding with him?”

Lan Wangji’s gaze was steady. “You snore.”

Wei Wuxian gasped. “Betrayed! By my own Lan Zhan! In front of the cameras!”

Somewhere behind them, one of the producers whispered to another, “This is gold. Don’t stop filming.”

The “schedule of activities” turned out to be even more ridiculous than anyone expected.

Lan Qiren read it out loud with the solemnity of a man reading death sentences:

“Day one: Icebreaker introductions. Group cooking activity. Team relay race. Evening campfire.”

“Campfire?” Wei Wuxian interrupted, grinning ear to ear. “Do we get to roast anything? Can I roast something? Jiang Cheng, can I roast you?”

“Try it,” Jiang Cheng growled.

“Day two,” Lan Qiren continued loudly over them, “will include archery contests, a scavenger hunt, and cooperative obstacle courses.”

“This sounds like something from a children’s summer camp,” Jin Ling muttered darkly.

“Day three,” Lan Qiren finished with a pointed glare, “the grand finale: Karaoke.”

The silence that followed was so profound it could have been carved into the mountains themselves.

“…You mean,” Wei Wuxian said carefully, “singing. In front of everyone. With… with lyrics?”

“Yes,” Lan Qiren said, his voice grim. “It is the final test of teamwork.”

“I think I’m going to faint,” Jiang Cheng said flatly.

“You’ll live,” Lan Qiren replied.

The first activity—icebreaker introductions—was already a disaster before it began.

A circle of cultivators sat awkwardly in the grass. The sun was shining, birds chirped, and Wei Wuxian was beaming like the host of a game show.

“Okay!” Wei Wuxian clapped his hands. “Let’s make this fun. Introduce yourself, share your sect, and tell us your favorite food! Simple, right?”

“This is absurd,” Jiang Cheng muttered, but Jin Ling nudged him until he reluctantly went first.

“…Jiang Wanyin. Jiang Sect Leader. Favorite food: spicy crab.”

Wei Wuxian leaned toward him with a grin. “Also his least favorite food, because it reminds him of how many crabs I stole growing up.”

“Shut up.”

Wei Wuxian laughed, unfazed.

Next came Jin Ling, who sat stiff-backed as though preparing for judgment. “Jin Ling. Young Master of Lanling Jin. Favorite food: sweet lotus root soup.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes softened. “Aww, just like your dad.”

Jin Ling scowled. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why not? It’s sweet,” Wei Wuxian said, genuinely touched. “Your dad would be proud.”

Jin Ling flushed pink and immediately turned away.

Lan Wangji’s turn came next. He sat perfectly composed. “…Lan Wangji. Favorite food: Emperor’s Smile.”

Wei Wuxian nearly choked. “Lan Zhan! You can’t say wine is food!”

“…It is,” Lan Wangji replied evenly.

Wei Wuxian dissolved into giggles. “Okay, okay, fair. I love you.”

Several disciples gasped. Jiang Cheng groaned into his hands.

“Moving on,” Lan Qiren barked, glaring daggers. “Next!”

Finally, Wei Wuxian stood, arms spread wide as though presenting himself to an adoring audience. “Wei Wuxian! Yiling Laozu, inventor of genius cultivation techniques, savior of damsels, occasional menace to Jiang Cheng. Favorite food: Anything that doesn’t explode—” he paused dramatically “—although, sometimes, exploding is fun too.”

The group collectively groaned.

“Sit down,” Jiang Cheng hissed.

The cooking activity was a level of chaos previously unseen in the Cloud Recesses.

The disciples had been divided into groups. Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, and Jiang Cheng somehow ended up in the same team, which was a recipe for disaster—literally.

“Alright,” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully, staring at the pile of ingredients laid before them. “Rice, vegetables, some fish… I think I can work with this!”

“No, you can’t,” Jiang Cheng said immediately. “You are not touching the stove.”

“I can cook!” Wei Wuxian protested.

“You can’t even boil water without—”

At that exact moment, the rice pot made a suspicious hissing noise.

Wei Wuxian froze. “Um. That’s not supposed to happen, is it?”

The pot erupted like a miniature volcano, spewing black smoke into the air. Disciples screamed. Someone yelled “Fire!” Wei Wuxian coughed, waving his arms helplessly.

“See?” Jiang Cheng shouted over the chaos. “SEE? This is exactly what I meant!”

“It was an accident!” Wei Wuxian cried.

Lan Wangji calmly picked up a bucket of water, doused the flames, and went back to chopping vegetables as though nothing had happened.

“Lan Zhan, you’re amazing,” Wei Wuxian said, eyes sparkling. “Look at you, saving the day—so manly!”

Lan Wangji’s ears turned the faintest shade of red.

Meanwhile, Jin Ling’s group had quietly made a perfectly edible stew, which only deepened the humiliation for the others.

By the time the “judges” (Lan Qiren and three terrified disciples with clipboards) came around to taste, Wei Wuxian’s group had nothing to present but a plate of charred mystery substance.

“…What is this?” Lan Qiren asked, horrified.

“Love,” Wei Wuxian said instantly. “It’s cooked with love.”

“Disqualified,” Lan Qiren snapped.

By evening, tempers were running high, tents were half-collapsed, and Wei Wuxian was still coughing from the smoke.

The campfire activity was supposed to “bring everyone together.” Instead, it turned into Jiang Cheng yelling, Wei Wuxian telling ghost stories that were way too scary for the younger disciples, and Jin Ling trying desperately to act like the responsible one.

“Stop scaring them!” Jin Ling barked after a particularly gruesome detail involving resentful spirits crawling out of a well. “They’re going to have nightmares!”

Wei Wuxian grinned, unrepentant. “That’s the point! Builds character.”

Lan Wangji quietly offered one of the trembling juniors a roasted yam. The disciple nearly cried with gratitude.

“See, Lan Zhan knows how to comfort them,” Wei Wuxian said, leaning his head against Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “You’re like… the responsible dad. And I’m the fun dad.”

“You’re the disaster dad,” Jiang Cheng corrected.

Wei Wuxian winked. “Better than being the grumpy uncle.”

“Shut up.”

By the end of the night, the campfire crackled low, the disciples huddled in their tents, and Lan Qiren sat off to the side, massaging his temples as though contemplating early retirement.

This was only day one.

And karaoke loomed ominously in the future.