Morning of the third day dawned too brightly for the amount of chaos Cloud Recesses had already endured. Birds chirped, the mountains gleamed, and Lan Qiren was massaging the space between his brows as though divine patience could be summoned with enough pressure.

The juniors had been restless after the midnight racket. Rumors of Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji’s “plum raid” had spread like wildfire, and disciples were whispering gleefully behind sleeves. The entire camp buzzed with the kind of anticipation that spelled disaster.

“Today,” Lan Qiren declared, his voice booming across the courtyard, “is the Talent Showcase. Each team will present a skill, performance, or demonstration of cultivator excellence. This is not for amusement. This is for discipline and teamwork.”

Wei Wuxian immediately threw both hands in the air. “I volunteer to go first!”

“No,” Jiang Cheng barked.

“Yes!” Wei Wuxian beamed. “You don’t even know what I was going to do.”

“I don’t care. Whatever it is, it’ll be a disaster.”

Wei Wuxian gasped. “You wound me, Jiang Cheng. Where’s your sense of faith?”

“Dead. Along with my patience.”

Lan Qiren slammed his staff against the ground. “Enough. The activity begins now.”

Jiang Cheng had been forcibly paired with Jin Ling again, much to both their dismay. They stood stiffly in the center while the audience of disciples waited expectantly.

“What’s your talent?” Wei Wuxian heckled from the sidelines. “Is it glaring? Because you’re really good at that.”

Jiang Cheng ignored him. He raised Zidian, the purple lightning whip, with a sharp flick. Electricity crackled menacingly.

Jin Ling sighed but drew his sword, Suihua, stepping forward with practiced grace. The two launched into a choreographed sparring routine—sword clashing against whip, sparks flying, mud splattering as their movements grew sharper, faster, more furious.

The juniors gasped and applauded.

Wei Wuxian clapped loudly. “Wow! Look at them! Uncle and nephew bonding through violence!”

“Shut up!” they both shouted in perfect unison.

Their performance ended with Jin Ling landing a clean strike against Jiang Cheng’s shoulder armor. For a moment, the camp was silent.

Then Wei Wuxian cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Victory for the next generation! The student surpasses the master!”

Jin Ling flushed bright red while Jiang Cheng’s face darkened several shades.

“Not bad,” Lan Qiren muttered grudgingly, jotting notes on his clipboard.

When it was Jin Ling’s turn to present solo, he awkwardly announced that he would demonstrate cooking a traditional Jin family dish: sweet lotus root soup.

Wei Wuxian’s eyes went misty. “Like your father’s favorite! Aww, this is so wholesome—”

The wholesomeness ended when Wei Wuxian “accidentally” knocked into the cooking pot while trying to “help,” sending half the ingredients flying into the fire. Smoke billowed everywhere, the pot hissed like an angry snake, and Jin Ling screamed, “Stop touching things!”

Lan Qiren had to summon two disciples with buckets of water.

The soup ended up looking like sludge, but Wei Wuxian cheerfully took a sip anyway. “Mmm! Crunchy!”

“It’s not supposed to be crunchy!” Jin Ling roared.

When Lan Qiren called Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji forward, the disciples leaned in eagerly. Everyone knew this performance would be something to remember.

Wei Wuxian held his flute proudly. “We’re doing a musical duet! Flute and guqin, the perfect harmony.”

Lan Wangji set his guqin before him, expression serene.

“Ready, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian asked.

“Mn.”

They began.

For the first thirty seconds, it was transcendent. Lan Wangji’s guqin notes flowed like water over stone, calm and beautiful. Wei Wuxian’s flute soared in counterpoint, mischievous yet somehow complementing perfectly. The audience was spellbound.

Then Wei Wuxian, unable to resist, shifted the melody into something suspiciously resembling a bawdy tavern song.

Lan Wangji’s hands stilled on the guqin strings.

“Lan Zhan, come on,” Wei Wuxian whispered mid-note. “Just follow my lead. It’ll be fun!”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

The audience dissolved into giggles.

Wei Wuxian leaned in dramatically, flute still poised. “Lan Zhan, for me?”

Lan Wangji’s jaw tightened, but he played on—his dignified guqin stubbornly clashing against Wei Wuxian’s increasingly ridiculous tune. By the end, the performance had devolved into a chaotic mash of solemn guqin notes and Wei Wuxian gleefully trilling what was unmistakably drinking-song flute jazz.

The juniors applauded wildly.

Lan Qiren looked like he wanted to evaporate on the spot.

By midday, the courtyard was littered with props, instruments, and one overturned soup pot. The juniors buzzed excitedly about the performances, already picking favorites.

Wei Wuxian was sprawled across the grass, fanning himself dramatically with a discarded paper program. “That was art, Lan Zhan. True art. We should tour the country.”

Lan Wangji gave him a long, unimpressed stare.

“Fine, maybe not a country-wide tour,” Wei Wuxian amended. “But at least a traveling street act?”

“No.”

“Harsh, but fair.”

Jiang Cheng marched past them, dragging Jin Ling by the arm. “We’re leaving. Before my blood pressure kills me.”

“You can’t leave!” Wei Wuxian called. “The final challenge is tomorrow!”

“I don’t care!” Jiang Cheng snapped.

Jin Ling sighed but didn’t argue.

Lan Qiren slammed his staff again. “No one is leaving. Tomorrow is the final test. Tonight, you will rest.”

Wei Wuxian smirked. “You heard the man. Karaoke awaits.”

Rest, of course, was impossible.

By evening, the campfire was roaring again, and the cultivators gathered for what should have been a calm night. Instead, a full-blown argument erupted over whose performance had been “best.”

“It was obviously mine,” Wei Wuxian declared. “The audience laughed, they cried—it had everything!”

“They cried because it was painful,” Jiang Cheng snapped.

“At least I tried something original,” Wei Wuxian shot back. “All you did was hit your nephew with a whip.”

“That was called discipline!”

Jin Ling glared. “You call nearly knocking my head off discipline? You’re insane.”

“You’re ungrateful,” Jiang Cheng retorted.

“Both of you are boring,” Wei Wuxian interrupted.

Jin Ling lunged for him, but Wei Wuxian dodged easily, sticking out his tongue.

Meanwhile, Lan Wangji sat serenely by the fire, sipping tea, completely ignoring the chaos.

“Lan Zhan, back me up,” Wei Wuxian begged. “Whose performance was best?”

Lan Wangji paused. “…Yours.”

Wei Wuxian gasped dramatically. “Vindicated! Finally, justice in this cruel world!”

Jiang Cheng groaned so loudly the fire sputtered.

Of course, the night couldn’t end without some kind of disaster.

This time, the juniors decided to start a game of “Truth or Dare,” clearly inspired by Wei Wuxian’s earlier antics. Wei Wuxian happily jumped in, dragging Lan Wangji with him.

“I dare Lan Zhan to… sing a love song!” Wei Wuxian declared gleefully.

The juniors cheered.

Lan Wangji said nothing.

Wei Wuxian leaned closer. “Lan Zhan? Love song? For me?”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“Yes.”

The standoff lasted nearly a full minute before Lan Qiren stormed over, face thunderous. “To bed. All of you. Now.”

The juniors scattered like frightened rabbits.

Wei Wuxian sighed, slumping against Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “He ruined the mood. I was so close to hearing you sing.”

“Tomorrow,” Lan Wangji murmured.

Wei Wuxian’s head shot up. “Tomorrow? You promise?”

“Mn.”

Wei Wuxian’s grin nearly split his face.

Jiang Cheng, who overheard from his tent, rolled over and muttered into his pillow, “If he sings, I’m leaving. I don’t care if it’s the finale.”

And so, the third day ended not with rest, but with bickering, laughter, and a looming sense of anticipation.

Tomorrow would be the final challenge.

Tomorrow would be karaoke.

And Wei Wuxian, for once, was absolutely serious when he whispered to Lan Wangji in the darkness, “This is going to be legendary.”