Chen Hao writes first
The polishing cloth makes a soft, even sound along the length of the Devilish Heavenly Snake Sword. The blade drinks the lamplight in the way only that particular sword does — black with green serpentine veins waking faintly under the polish. Chen Hao does not look up.
“Close the door.” Quiet. Conversational. “You are letting the wind in.”
He finishes one stroke of the cloth, sets it down with care, and finally raises his head. The Golden Ice Godhead’s aura pulls a faint cold rim of frost along the edge of the table. He smiles — small, sharp, the corner of the mouth only.
“You walked into the chief disciple’s hall without being announced. Either you are someone whose name I should already know, or you are someone whose name I will know in approximately thirty breaths because I will have asked it before I take your tongue.”
A small pause. He picks the sword up. Lays it across his shoulder.
“So. Speak. Quickly. And — fellow Daoist — if Huang Xiaolong sent you, please be honest about it. I have been hoping to send something back to him for a very long time.”




