( Four, Lan Wangji says, and Hua Cheng rolls a set of them.

Lucky or unlucky? The furrow between his brows deepens, moves with it the strap of leather, a pale hand reaching out to snap the dice up again, scooping them back into the cup. ) Your sword is pretty, but I don't need to see it. I have an entire room of fine weapons.

( Not here, unfortunately. E-Ming is dormant still at his side, hidden under the table top. He could still use it if he needed, the blade remained sharp. He doesn't reach for it. There's no reason for it. )

Besides, I'm merely wasting time. ( The cup shakes, black nails tap against the side. ) Nothing a passing cultivator should take exception to.