( A... rapier. He suspects, gaze drifting and hard, warm on Lockwood's blade — the instrument. It appears of a strange disposition, hardly fit for purpose. More an overly grown dagger than a sword, but the young man acquits himself of his duties magnificently.

Since he was six years of age. And destined to sacrifice... efficiency once his twentieth summer blooms. A cruel fate for a swordsman, an exorcist, a man devoted to vocation and cause.

No matter. There is more work here to be toiled than the slow, pensive churning of Lan Wangji's thoughts as he turns, swiftly, to dive into the next wave of dead. They seem to have devolved, by this point, may deprived of their base qualities of advance, dropping on hands and knees and chasing despite the misuse of their legs. Like animals, he knows. Like dogs.

He dives, stepping on the back of one, then the second, a third — and nearly losing his balance, before he thrusts his sword down on his groaning, gagging... mount... pinning it in place. Hissing, towards Lockwood: )

We head too deep into waters. The shore.

( They cannot be overwhelmed here. )