Correct. ( ...on both counts. Remarkable, truly, the merits of compact conversation. It is almost as if Lan Wangji can only ever purpose himself towards one assignment: speech or slaughter.

His sword, a trail of silvered light, decides on massacre. He follows suit, rapidly, each cut clean, slowly learning — )

You do not cleave, but spear. ( A statement, intended as a question, when he next swivels around Lockwood and observes the sword turned and its hilt consigned to bludgeon the sternum of a freshly roused creature, instead of deploying the flat of the blade.

Then again, hardly enough width to that narrow needle that Lockwood continues to employ, perhaps bereft alternative. Is he a servant's son, possessed of skill but not the means to arm himself rightfully?

If nothing else, Lan Wangji may assist in this, later. )

We will equip you — ( A moment, as he leans in and cuts evenly through the arm's socket of the next and nearest cadaver, dead weight stilling after a short squelch and squirm in the trembled waters. ) With better blade af —

( Never mind. Glint and dark, and the freshly cut hand holds a trinket of something most especial. He cannot peel himself away from the next wave of the dead. )

Shard, on ground. Northeast. ( Get it, young fellow. Think of your senior's bad back. )