The one who survived Yiling. Jiang Wanyin. The Wen massacre. The negligence of the Jiang, the malignant, ill-natured accusations of the sects. The martyr, the hero, the demon, the saint. 

The necromancer. Such a charming boy, and such carnage before him.

Strange, how simple utterance unhinges Lan Wangji's jaw, raw and rusting and creaking, like iron submerged, how he aches for the memory, etched in the stone of days ill met. The first word is hardest, he knows this, speaks it, barely hears the paper-shredded rasps of his own voice over the cresting turmoil of white anger like sea foam, roiling, and the storm old since one banquet, gilded, "If you, Wei Wuxian, wish to kill someone, who can stop you?"

If Lan Wangji descends, serpent-like, who can stop him? When he catches the slippery-slick tremors of his cleansing cloth in both hands, turns to twist and strengthen it like wet rope, and to capture the waiting prey of Wei Ying's ankles and pull in, every breath in him treacherous, his lungs inundated — if he makes attempt to bring Wei Ying down to Lan Wangji's knelt measure, who can name him wrong? 

What is right, and what is —

A third to seek down the mines would mark three too many.