Lan Wangji might have predicted that eagerness, but it makes him fonder still anyway. Firstly, he rises to replace the stick of incense with a fresh one, lighting it anew. He pauses, glancing out the window at the sun glinting off the sparse remnants of late-winter snow. Spring feels, finally, imminent.

He returns to his seat, sleeves trailing as he crosses his legs again. This story is like a dozen strands of hair knotted together. The only way to unravel it is to pick one strand and begin there. "Qinghe Nie was founded by a butcher. Its cultivators do not cultivate with swords as I do. They cultivate with sabers¹ and the resentful energy of beasts. It is a dangerous path. Nie cultivators live short lives and often die of qi deviations." He knows someone else who died of a spiritual backlash, but he keeps a calm demeanor as he speaks. "Xiongzhang was always close with Nie Mingjue, who became the sect leader of Qinghe Nie as an adolescent. He hoped I would become similarly close with Nie Huaisang." He pauses again, an evocative enough pause to say, clearly, that he and Nie Huaisang did not become close. Plainly put, they could have not have had any less interest in one another.

¹Dao, or 刀.