#I rather like bitter jaded world weary wwx

[fistfuloflightning]

The man hums, a disturbingly cheerful sound for their surroundings. “Cang Qiong? Can’t say I’ve heard of that sect before. Tell me, does it reside somewhere far away? Or is it some new sect that just sprang up?”

He doesn’t believe him. Luo Binghe’s wild confusion keeps his head down while his eyesight clears and he reorders his thoughts. The panic has died down and now he’s picking apart the man’s words. Never heard of that sect before…? Surely not. Cang Qiong is famous across the jianghu for its wealth and its cultivators. Surely this cultivator should know even that?

He finally looks up. He’s somewhere cold and deep and he resolutely does not think of the pool of blood roiling behind him. The cave is reminiscent of the deep caverns on Wan Jian Peak, where the spirit swords are drawn from the root of the mountain. But there is little of home about it. The walls are plastered with yellow papers—talismans—and Luo Binghe’s skin crawls at the almost suffocating feel of being watched—of Shizun’s hand clawing into his shoulder. Can still feel Zheng Yang shattering in his hands.

Luo Binghe cannot stop the bone-deep flinch when someone touches his shoulder. The man who had first sent up the alarm. A guard, or a prison warden. The man in black just watches, dark eyes tracking his every move with a disturbing fascination. The others had called him Wei-gongzi.

A million questions catch under his tongue. “Where is this place?” he asks instead. “And who are you?”

The man’s mouth curls into a grin. It would look roguish and charming on anyone whose eyes didn’t look so empty. He brings bandaged hands together in a bow. “Wei Wuxian of Yiling Wei welcomes Luo Binghe, disciple of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect,” he says, and in his mouth it sounds like a mockery.

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