He tucks the talisman away following the lifted hand, the quietness of disguise following on the loud reality of the agitated, unrestful town around. Not the first time to have seen such things, not at Yiling's fringe, where people survived because people had to survive somewhere, somehow. Here, the forest edge was green still, the fields allowed for tilling no matter the salt carried in the souls of those who clawed at the living.

Resentment builds, festers. Given guidance, it can find its own means to let go, and some does, some wants resolution through whatever act that may entail, and to then leave, departing its hauntings for whatever cycled next. Cicadas, emerging from the earth years after their laying, to devour all they encountered in a brief period, then shed their skin for their next life.

His lips press into a line, considering fully before he answers the proposed certainty: can you less of a challenge and more of a negotiation of limitations.

One with answers he finds, and tastes bitter on his tongue.

"I can," he says, turning his face toward Lan Zhan, "No one plays counter to me here, Lan Zhan, and Chenqing sings true."

There are ways and ways to manage this, and containment needs storing, a target, a redirect. His hollowed core less holds resentment than allows it passage through him should it try to cling on, finding nothing to hold on to, no further energy to fuel them. He turns his hand palm up, offered toward Lan Zhan.

"Anchoring does not require the cleansing, but the stubborn ones, it'll come down to something like this if the true minds are driven too far down."

A warning for the unintentional consequences, in how resentful energies can resent their own thwarted purpose even as they might likewise embrace it.