( His sword, called down, is a silvered ray, blood dripped at the tip of her in slow, tar-like trickling. Gelid, coagulated, thickened. He watches the blade's hemorrhage, dark under stern moonlight, and does not think of the greedy animal howls of flesh ripping, shredding far too close.

They prey more than kill, these deadened things. They savour the opportunity, fang and claws all deployed, the strength of their arms and legs. It is a primitive, feral quality, blood-curdling.

These creatures will not curtail themselves. )

Children should not toil.

( But he speaks it aridly, with timid understanding that he is a gentleman born to privilege, and lesser houses commandeer their sons from their childhoods for the work of the field, the road, ships and commerce. That this boy has been steered towards the sword is little more than the curse of need. )

You know the sword. ( The sharp end of her, he does, Lan Wangji has seen — for how he swerves the blade, the boy can it well. So be it. ) Come hunt.

( There is... work to be done, inevitably. ) I shall not ask your name, should you fall.