If Wei Ying trusts, who is Lan Wangji to deny him?
The better sword hand, the more sophisticated exorcist, the consummate cultivator — all but a babe in swaddling, in matters of resentment. To cleanse a wound requires only the theory of how injury was dealt. Wei Ying's mouth speaks the poison, he watches its tendrils grow to root, sees it spread. Of the two, if one is worthy of wisdom, it is not he anointed by half of the cultivation world with ardour, the remaining half between grudging, broken-back bows.
The sun bursts through in empty pallor. In Yiling, all is listless, a silhouette of itself, as if energy is a scantly doled resource. It stains his hands sweet, dapples like blood smear. Electric, the air carries long scents of iron.
He readies himself, the quiet snap of limbs bargaining their learned place after eel-like, swollen undulation, precious seconds submitted to languor. He feels an animal, constricted by the negative space he must fill out at Wei Ying's side, bolstered by his presence. An extension of him, weapon drawn, hand soft when air and qi mingle and marry and summon his guqin in half-lidded blinks of efficiency.
Gasps bloom alongside him in quiet, volcanic eruption. What the minds of those touched by resent do not know, their instincts sharpen to acknowledge.
no subject
The better sword hand, the more sophisticated exorcist, the consummate cultivator — all but a babe in swaddling, in matters of resentment. To cleanse a wound requires only the theory of how injury was dealt. Wei Ying's mouth speaks the poison, he watches its tendrils grow to root, sees it spread. Of the two, if one is worthy of wisdom, it is not he anointed by half of the cultivation world with ardour, the remaining half between grudging, broken-back bows.
The sun bursts through in empty pallor. In Yiling, all is listless, a silhouette of itself, as if energy is a scantly doled resource. It stains his hands sweet, dapples like blood smear. Electric, the air carries long scents of iron.
He readies himself, the quiet snap of limbs bargaining their learned place after eel-like, swollen undulation, precious seconds submitted to languor. He feels an animal, constricted by the negative space he must fill out at Wei Ying's side, bolstered by his presence. An extension of him, weapon drawn, hand soft when air and qi mingle and marry and summon his guqin in half-lidded blinks of efficiency.
Gasps bloom alongside him in quiet, volcanic eruption. What the minds of those touched by resent do not know, their instincts sharpen to acknowledge.
"I have you. Go."