( The trickle of his touch, torn from him. Bare. He wants, desperately, to spill over like water from a broken cup, to fit the negative space that Wei Ying permits around himself. To disappear, fading, faded. Desaturated, darks to greys to gone.

He pledged.

And, so, he nears him, crack of a skull and break of a bone and the joints battered under his step. Fingers half trembled, he takes Wei Ying's hand in his own, bares the barren land of his palm, and he — scries down.

The start gives him the conceit of maturity, one last chance to flee, 无. It should have been 无极, if he had the sense for it. Infinity, the primordial supreme, aspiration of cultivation. Immortality towards which all converges.

If he lies to this man, he will lie to the world, will spit the cheek of his ancestors, will claw their eyes out. He watches himself, knows himself watch, feels the growing thick gasp of fire behind him, the shrink of his flesh into himself. He does not weep again — 机 — and releases Wei Ying's hand, like a flower wilting on an empty grave —

Then catches it again, manacled at the wrist. )

Find me different discipline. Do not jump again.