You believe you need vengeance. ( Want, urgency, the private gnawing to understand oneself as a better man. One flattered by ethical imperatives to rescue his companions, sooner than abolish the dregs of his suffering.

No, there is no kindness in fast culling, in the jittery, clumsy silhouette of Wen Kexing's rage. He haunts himself: a child, or a boy, or the young man of yesteryear — breathing hate into the husk of the man he is today.

Figure out what it wants. Nothing. Everything. What is it such things desire? Like guttering candles, only enough wind's fuel to survive. These are unsophisticated hauntings. They have no intent past the base, no prospect beyond the first sip of a living being's nightmares.

One gasp is more than they had hoped to steal. )

It had the better of you, winning one battle. Leave it, to claim the war.