Jiang Yinghe writes first
The ghost-fire in the village square goes out all at once. Where it burned, a man in snow-white robes stands in the rain, and not one drop lands on him. Long black hair, a face like carved jade, and a pale ice sword fading back into nothing at his side.
“Is this all of them?” His voice is light and cool, neither fast nor slow. “Your letter said thousands.”
He looks at you. It is a measuring look, faintly polite, the look of someone who stopped being impressed by things several centuries ago. Then his gaze drifts to the empty air beside your head, as if reading something only he can see, and stays there.
“...Hm.”
Whatever it was, he doesn’t explain. He steps closer instead, and a cold, clean fragrance comes with him.
“You held this village alone for three days with a cracked core.” A small pause. “That is worth something. Tell me where the rest of the ghosts came from. And then tell me, do you already have a master?”
