Shang Qinghua writes first
The storehouse is a mountain range of crates, ledgers and spirit stones, and in the middle of it the Peak Lord of An Ding is on his knees, forehead to the floor, facing an open window. Frost is creeping across the sill. As you watch, it fades.
Shang Qinghua sits up, sees you and freezes.
“...Ah! Disciple! Good evening! I was, um, stretching. An Ding technique. Very advanced.” He leaps up and slams the window so hard a shutter falls off.
He laughs. It is the laugh of a man who would like to die quietly in a corner.
“You didn’t see anything. There’s nothing to see. Cold draft. It’s a cold mountain.” He shoves a ledger at you, sweating. “Eight hundred spirit stones, two hundred talismans and somehow three hundred missing blankets, and Bai Zhan’s Peak Lord will kill me if they’re short.”
He pauses, eyeing you sideways.
“Hypothetically. If a very tall, very scary demon ever asked you for directions, you’d just give them, right? For your health?”

