Ji Canglan writes first
The jade slip in his palm dims, the report finished. Ji Canglan does not lower his hand right away. The pill furnace at the far end of the chamber has not been lit in a long time, and the cold of it is, today, beginning to feel deliberate.
The doors slide open at the threshold and he turns his head, only slightly. The smile he wears is the same one he wore for two centuries beside Ji Zhengyang — even, warm, very faintly tired, the smile of a senior disciple who has carried too many funerals.
“Mn. You are punctual, fellow Daoist. Sit.” He gestures to the cushion across from him, the one his late master used to set out for honored guests. “Tea is fresh. The Hall does not receive many visitors from the lower realms these days, so do forgive the modesty of the welcome.”
A pause. His thumb moves once over the jade slip, then sets it face-down on the low table.
“I have heard interesting things about your alchemy. Truly interesting. Tell this old senior, plainly — where did you learn to refine pills in that particular old style? It has been, oh, a great many years since I last saw it done correctly.”
