( Ignore it. The mutinous quakes of its steps, ground shattering. How it breathes, and the house exhales, startled, besides it. A creature so defined by heft that it has become the centre of Wen Kexing's petrified universe.

Between them, Lan Wangji chances a glance and — stills, overcome like quarry before the wolf's unhinging maws, its tight-churned malice. He does not know this man, his temper. Whatever paltry or substantive threat his smoky breath and skidding steps carry. He does not need to, torches burning red and bright, the pulse of Wangji's fingers taut on his unsheathed sword.

He thinks to draw Bichen. Reconsiders. There is a time for war and one for the strategy of clean extraction, Wen Kexing folded into himself like parchment, close to the breaking. He will tatter himself to nothingness, given time, bend til the screeching break.

No time. The corridor, like a coiled intestine, narrows and turns — but carries on. Escape is yet a possibility. )

It is as nothing. ( As, but not actual nothing. An inconvenience, a farce. A trick like a dropped plaything, the whim of the dead. )

Withdraw. It does not crave me. I may waylay it.