( A perimeter of rocks. Perhaps, though their hands must yet enter, and they have not the time to trickle and waste, while the flame perishes of its own lifespan. He considers, then mutely nods, accepting of the plan —

And offers the tender continuation, his own proposal meagre. Flame crackles and bursts and burns beyond. He gazes, at peace with an ash-covered world. )

Wards, around our bodies. Perhaps.

( But then, wards also guard a perimeter. They cannot hope to simultaneously enter the fire undeterred and keep entirely protected. Only to minimise what damage reaches them. )

Or speed. Unbury with our swords' tip. ( Metal will serve as an extension of their arms. ) Hard healing, if burned, after. Wen Qing.