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As if the death of Jin GuangYao had appeased the heavens themselves, the storm has abated by the time Nie HuaiSang steps through the mangled doors of the temple.
In his hand, the cap feels heavy, an anchor to a rage not yet quite appeased. It’s soaked with sweat and rain, rusty with blood and soil. Nie HuaiSang doesn’t know what to do with it, but he holds onto it anyway, for now. Around him, the sounds of raised voices mix with the frantic splash of boots in mud, but they all feel distant, as if he’s hearing them through water. Not that it matters; he is an unassuming figure, standing half-hidden in the shadow of the temple. His storm-soaked robes scratch at his arms, his legs, his torso, the hair falling in his face like needles on his skin.
Nie HuaiSang focuses on his hands, which are cold and blissfully numb. Clenched as they are, the knuckles push against the confines of his skin.
A sharp bark draws his awareness back, and Nie HuaiSang looks towards the temple, now becoming steadily empty as the Jiang disciples make their way back towards the town. From inside, Jin Ling’s voice is rising above the now oppressive silence descended around the temple grounds.
“You’re so annoying Uncle!” Jin Ling shouts, before their conversation becomes unintelligible again, fervent and frustrated, but not truly angry. Nie HuaiSang watches, half hidden by the trees that line the path, as Jiang Cheng walks out of the temple grounds, following the anxious figure of his nephew. A dog circles his ankles, energetically happy in a way which is at odds with the heaviness of the atmosphere around it, but Jiang Cheng walks confidently, never at risk of tripping over its bouncing form.
Despite his disposition, Nie HuaiSang notes, his stride is never angry or rushed; since they were young, Jiang Cheng has walked with pride straightening his back. Now, it makes him look powerful rather than arrogant, the bold line of his body and making him look taller, broader. Then, he stops, as if sensing someone watching him. Nie HuaiSang retreats deeper into the trees, but Jiang Cheng doesn’t turn, only pauses for a moment before he continues, whistling lowly for the dog to heel.
Nie HuaiSang doesn’t wait to see them leave. He turns back towards the road, following the path of his brothers’ coffin. Subconsciously, he feels his back straighten, his shoulders bending back to follow.
Sealing the coffin of his brothers is, of course, a diplomatic issue of utmost importance. Nie HuaiSang tells himself; it is, in these circumstances, only natural to request a personal meeting with Sect Leader Jiang. He decides to resolutely ignore the curious stares of the Nie Sect cultivators as they watch him, for the first time, take an intimate interest in diplomacy.
Lotus Pier is a contradiction; the lake is placid as Nie HuaiSang steps off the boat onto the pier jutting from the bank, the air warm and still, but the bank itself is buzzing with activity. Despite the warmth of the atmosphere, there is deep sadness in the novelty of the buildings, the youth of the flock of senior disciples that walk forward to greet their party. Almost none are older than Nie HuaiSang himself.
A polite, if stilted, exchange of pleasantries later, they are led along the pier and through to the main building. Everything is light wood, whites and purples, quiet as the lake which surrounds it. The room Nie HuaiSang is led into is spacious, prepared for a large diplomatic cohort. Nie HuaiSang had been unclear in his request, he thinks, as the bustling disciples settle themselves expectantly. They will be disappointed.
“Ah,” Nie HuaiSang affects surprise, a little confusion, “will Sect Leader Jiang not be joining us?”
“Sect Leader is currently otherwise engaged.” Diplomacy really is an inefficient medium, as the disciples take several moments to prepare an adequate excuse to present to him. It’s an older looking disciple sitting across from him that speaks, his voice bland and even. “He is overseeing the training of the younger disciples today.”
There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence. “That’s unfortunate.” Nie HuaiSang finally replies. “I’m afraid, then, that we’ve come all this way for nothing.”
All the disciples are looking towards him now, expressions ranging from confusion to frustration. The one from before, the older one with the boring voice, seems stuck between the two, features attempting at politeness but creasing in annoyance nonetheless.
Nie HuaiSang pauses, revels momentarily in their discomfort. “Um. Well.” His shoulders slump in a practiced slouch, hiding his face partially behind his fan. “It’s just that my request made it very clear that I would only speak to Sect Leader Jiang.” Nie HuaiSang’s eyes are lowered, and he seems to shrink. The disciples are now visibly uncomfortable, struggling to remain respectful in the face of such weakness from a superior.
“With all due respect, Sect Leader Nie,” it’s the boring one speaking again “these matters are not so pressing as to require the presence of the Sect Leader. Following the discussions, we can relay anything of importance to him directly— “
“I’m sorry! It’s just,” HuaiSang’s voice is pitched high, tearful, “without Sect Leader Jiang I’m afraid I just really can’t contribute anything! To discuss such personal things, the deaths of my brothers, with those I’m not close to is really…” He sniffs and begins to shake his head. “I really don’t know if I can, and for you all to see a Sect Leader so vulnerable is really too shameful!”
All the disciples in the room avoid looking at his pitiful form curled in on itself, averting their eyes from his performance. His eyes shine with unshed tears, faint smirk hidden firmly behind his fan, as he looks up and across the table, towards the dull-voiced disciple who is studiously avoiding eye contact. Nie HuaiSang manages to catch his eyes for a fleeting, fateful moment.
Not an hour later, Jiang Cheng storms into where Nie HuaiSang has been settled in to wait in a much smaller reception room. It looks out over the lake, which reflects the light of the late-day sun through the window, bathing everything in a warm light. A pavilion is barely visible in the distance. Nie HuaiSang has arranged himself carefully in the light from the window, profile slightly turned, head lowered, as the door slams open.
“What are you doing?” Jiang Cheng stops just inside the room, arms crossed defensively across his chest, aloof and accusatory.
Nie HuaiSang can’t help but smile a little at how offended he sounds. “Jiang-xiong, I’m honoured that you would join me to discuss even such small diplomatic matters.”
If anything, Jiang Cheng’s scowl deepens. “You hate diplomatic matters. Why are you here?”
Nie HuaiSang feigns hurt. “Jiang-xiong, do you think me so irresponsible as to neglect the care of my brothers’ burial?” He slumps a little behind his fan, raising his eyes to Jiang Cheng’s. For a moment, he remains impassive, but then he sighs, closing the doors flung open behind him. Reluctantly, he makes his way over to sit across from Nie HuaiSang at the table by the window. Jiang Cheng avoids looking at him, eyes fixed on a point over his shoulder, through the window and towards the lake. HuaiSang shifts his body to block his gaze.
“You really seem determined to avoid me Jiang-xiong. Should I be offended?” With his body covering the line of sight to the window, Jiang Cheng is forced to look directly at him.
In the muted light Jing Cheng’s stern jaw looks softened, his features strangely delicate even as he frowns and directs his gaze towards Nie HuaiSang’s chin, hidden behind his fan. “What you should be is less shameless.” Jiang Cheng looks up, catching Nie HuaiSang’s eyes. “I really was busy, and you made my senior disciples run around you like scared children.”
As he meets Jiang Cheng’s calculating gaze, Nie HuaiSang begins to realise he may have underestimated the limits of his own composure. Under the full weight of Jiang Cheng’s attention, he can feel his face heating up, and there’s no way to hide the blush with how close they are to each other. Rushing to distract them both, he snaps his fan closed and replies, “Well, if you’d come to greet me in the first place, there would be no problem. Besides,” he smiles, “Jiang-xiong your disciples are just too funny. You should train them to be harder to tease.”
“Hm”, Jiang Cheng leans forward to rest his elbow on the table, supporting his cheek on his hand. This new proximity does nothing to reduce the heat in Nie HuaiSang’s face. “So you came here to tease my disciples?”
“Maybe not your disciples.” Nie HuaiSang mirrors Jiang Cheng’s posture, but allows his body to tilt to the side, allowing the stretch of robes to emphasise the curve of his waist.
Jiang Cheng’s eyes are drawn by the pull of cloth and linger, for a second, before he looks towards the wall. “Is there a reason, or are you just bored? If you’re here because you’re bored, just leave.”
There’s a beat of silence. Nie Huaisang really has miscalculated. “Jiang-xiong, you’re too clever. To tell the truth, I don’t have a reason.” This is a lie. He does have a reason; it’s broad, confident shoulders, the slope of a narrow waist, a sharp jaw and a sharper tongue. “But I’m hoping you’ll humour me anyway.”
“Right.” Jiang Cheng turns back to him, eyebrows raised. “And how exactly should I go about,” his eyes drop down briefly to trace the dip of Nie HuaiSang’s waist, “humoring you?”
Nothing can hide the fierce redness Nie HuaiSang is sure paints his cheeks. Still, he leans across, chest brushing the table, and hooks his closed fan underneath Jiang Cheng’s chin. Grey eyes watch him with a guarded expression, but his lips part as he lets his head be nudged upwards. With his head tilted like this he looks imperious, even as he lets himself be maneuvered to another’s desire.
“You’re very clever, Jiang-xiong,” Nie HuaiSang taps the fan against Jiang Cheng’s chin before leaning back to stand, hands tucked into his sleeves, “I’m sure you can think of something.”
For the next five days, Nie HuaiSang stays at Lotus Pier, housed in a guest wing with furnishings even more sparse than those in the main quarter. Despite ample prompting, Jiang Cheng doesn’t visit once; instead, a retinue of mousy senior disciples oversee his stay, taking him on politely narrated tours of the town. Each one is more boring than the last. But around halfway through a second long lecture, which thoroughly details local fishing traditions, Nie HuaiSang begins to suspect he is being tested. So, he endures, ‘hm’s and ‘ah I see’s in all the appropriate places, hides yawns behind his fan. Imagines that it’s the full tenor of Jiang Cheng’s voice educating him about the specifics of Yunmeng boat building practices, instead of a dull and lengthy drone.
By the time dawn breaks on day number six, however, Nie HuaiSang’s patience has run out. He lets himself be dragged from sleep almost before the sun fully rises, goes through the motions of getting himself prepared for the day. Outside his rooms, the torturer of the day is waiting, resigned, but before the disciple’s mouth opens to list an itinerary, Nie HuaiSang flips his fan open and walks straight past him.
Spluttering, the disciple stumbles after him. “Sect Leader Nie, there is a schedule already prepared—”
“Sect Leader Jiang usually trains the younger disciples at this time, is that right?” Nie HuaiSang doesn’t slow to let the man catch up to him, keeping a faster pace. Unused to the sudden urgency in the Sect Leader’s movements, the disciple lags behind.
“Yes, but Sect Leader Nie, access to the training grounds is restricted, and—” the disciple trips over his feet as Nie HuaiSang stops in front of him.
“I’m sure Sect Leader Jiang won’t mind just this once.” with a flick of his robes, Nie HuaiSang continues walking, speeding up to cut off the disciple’s weakening protests.
As it turns out, Sect Leader Jiang really does mind. When he sees Nie HuaiSang enter the training grounds, his face scrunches in a scowl so severe the young disciple he had been speaking to steps back a few paces, trying to hide behind his classmates.
Nie HuaiSang starts towards the greeting he’d practiced in his head— some right mix of nonchalance, flirtation— but before he can even open his mouth Jiang Cheng’s hand is gripping his arm and pulling him across the courtyard. As if hit with a realisation, Jiang Cheng stops to throw some instructions for sword drills at the junior disciples left in shocked silence behind them; Nie HuaiSang doesn’t have enough time to even try to process whatever those instructions were before he starts getting dragged away by the arm again.
For a few seconds, Nie HuaiSang allows it, a traitorous part of him enjoying the gentle grip on his arm that is so at odds with the forceful aura Jiang Cheng is projecting. It’s admirable, Nie HuaiSang thinks, that even in anger Jiang Cheng shows a reluctance to hurting those he’s close to. Even if he only thinks of Nie HuaiSang as an acquaintance, he’s restrained, the power behind his grip only a suggestion. Nie HuaiSang is hit with an urge to feel that grip on his waist, holding his hips, his thighs. He pulls his arm away from Jiang Cheng’s hand and steps back to follow a few paces behind him.
“Jiang-xiong,” Nie HuaiSang coughs to clear the strained note that’s made its way into his voice, “Your guest has been feeling very neglected.”
Jiang Cheng lets out a short huff of laughter, but says nothing. They’ve crossed the entire courtyard, stopping outside a small, empty room; this area is deserted, and the sounds of the training grounds are faint behind them. Nie HuaiSang is reluctant to break the silence, but the words rise up anyway, some anxious babble trapped tentatively behind his teeth. It’s very possible he’s misjudged how far he can push with Jiang Cheng, that he mistook polite reluctance for flirtation. However much he’s utilised his own humiliation, he’s never grown used to that aching heat that swells, fills his chest with every second of passing silence.
Finally, Jiang Cheng turns around. His expression is far from politeness; his jaw is tight and determined, but his eyes are hesitant. Those proud shoulders are bent— there’s an honest vulnerability to him that makes Nie HuaiSang’s chest swell with something very far from embarrassment. But he’s unused to Jiang Cheng’s close scrutiny. It makes his skin itch, and he shifts, drops his gaze to hide his face.
It seems to break whatever spell has weaved itself around them, and Jiang Cheng leans his back against the wall, arms crossed.
“I’ve been trying to bore you to death, but you’re still here.” he says, finally. “I just don’t understand why.”
Nie HuaiSang isn’t surprised by this revelation. It very nearly worked. Those lectures were deadly, and he’s been so, so tempted to leave; to march down the pier and, if he had to, row himself away from those dull drones that filled his ears day-to-day. But then he’d catch one glimpse of Jiang Cheng, looking proud and aloof and untouchable, and he’d steel himself to listen to a hundred lectures if it meant one step closer to him. To think, it had all been so simple.
Nie HuaiSang laughs. It earns him an insulted look, but he can’t help it. “Jiang-xiong,” his smile colours his voice with a teasing lilt, “you went through so much trouble. But it really isn’t that complicated.” Nie HuaiSang looks up, takes a step forward. “I’m here because I’m waiting for you.”
Really, Jiang Cheng has no right to look so shocked. Nie HuaiSang is not that subtle. Yet, he seems stunned into silence, his lips parted on a retort that must have died at words that were, strangely, unexpected.
“What,” Nie HuaiSang says, “did you think I enjoyed learning about woodwork traditions? This isn’t what I meant when I asked you to entertain me.”
“Then,” Jiang Cheng takes a deep breath, “what did you mean?”
“I thought we’d already established that.” Nie HuaiSang steps close enough to push his finger into Jiang Cheng’s chest. It’s the highest part of him he can reach without balancing up on his toes.
“Well I’m not that easy.” as if surprised by his own words, Jiang Cheng’s eyes widen.
Nie HuaiSang laughs and steps back. “I know.” he turns to walk away, but looks back after a moment, catching Jiang Cheng lowering the hand he’d raised. To chase after him, maybe. “Next time, you’d better be the one lecturing me, Sect Leader Jiang. I like your voice.”
They make a habit of it, Nie HuaiSang travelling down to Yunmeng whenever he has time to spare. This is often, as Sect Leadership matters become, if anything, even more inconsequential when they stand in the way of visits to Lotus Pier. Despite how much longer it takes, Nie HuaiSang never flies, instead taking the trip by land and water; like this, he’s almost always travelling now.
Jiang Cheng always meets him when he arrives, waiting diligently at the end of the pier as the boat pulls up. He’s polite, offering a short greeting, standing aside to allow Nie HuaiSang and his small retinue— two older disciples who, unlike him, carry their sabres prominent on their hips— to step onto the shore. But, always, there’s a hesitancy. It’s there in the way Jiang Cheng avoids proximity to him, always walking half a step faster than Nie HuaiSang so that his shorter legs can’t keep up without breaking into a jog. Seating arrangements that never place them next to each other at meals, though they are always close enough to talk.
And talk they do, the frequency of it increasing in increments; first, only distant conversation in public, but the distance lessens, becomes more private as Jiang Cheng becomes accustomed to his presence.
Or, reaccustomed, perhaps, but their past — their easy conversations, the adolescent simplicity of them— are gone, lost with time and displaced in blood-soaked memory.
It gets easier, between them, and then so very much harder as Nie HuaiSang grows used to how Jiang Cheng’s presence makes his cheeks heat and his chest tighten. Instead, with a growing frequency, he begins to notice how Jiang Cheng’s voice loosens the tightness he always feels in his shoulders. How, when Nie HuaiSang teases a laugh out of him, it makes his heart stop, for a moment, makes him smile, giddy, for hours. How a weight seems to settle in his chest whenever they have to part; a weight that stays until Jiang Cheng meets him outside his rooms the next morning. How Nie HuaiSang always finds himself leaning towards Jiang Cheng when he speaks, captivated, finds his gaze drawn to Jiang Cheng’s lips with more longing, now, than lust.
Not only the intensity, the novelty, of these emotions makes fear crawl its way up Nie HuaiSang’s throat and settle there. It’s the uncertainty. Jiang Cheng keeps a distance, however close they get. Sometimes, Nie HuaiSang thinks he feels Jiang Cheng watching him, his gaze trailing the contours of Nie HuaiSang’s back, or intent on his face in the periphery of his vision. When he turns, however, Jiang Cheng is always looking away. He thinks maybe he imagined it— until the next time, and the next. Other, smaller things, like the way there’s always enough space between them that the warmth Nie HuaiSang feels when they walk side by side is phantom. Or the way Jiang Cheng always seems a little distracted when they’re together, some part of him closed off and unreachable.
Nie HuaiSang’s fear waxes and wanes with his certainty, and the cyclical unpredictability of it— one step forward, two steps back, but always in a different direction— twists his usually sharp mind into disuse. Jiang Cheng blunts him into stunned confusion.
Most tellingly, though; Nie HuaiSang’s visits to Yunmeng have spanned months, but Jiang Cheng has never followed him to Qinghe. The fear, the uncertainty, twists this innocent fact into some bitter unspoken rejection.
For the first time in months, Nie HuaiSang delays his trip to Lotus Pier. Instead, he buries his head in the metaphorical sand, discovering a wealth of long-neglected paperwork that he applies himself to with frightening dedication.
At first, his long-suffering sect are thrilled. Finally, the accounts are complete, on time, without prompting. Junior disciples find their tests marked ahead of time, annotations annoyingly detailed. A backlog of reports for night hunting missions are approved, sorted; new missions are frequent and specific.
Soon, though, they realise that they see even less of their sect leader than they usually do. When disciples go looking, they come back ashen-faced, shaking their heads when questioned. Nie HuaiSang delights in the glimpses he catches, walking through the halls as quickly as he can without breaking into a run, of junior disciples huddled together as if recounting ghost stories. Ones that stop abruptly when they catch sight of him.
Avoidance is something Nie HuaiSang does well. Practice has made him adept at combining the pathetic, the ignorant, and the weak into something people find themselves instinctively drawn away from. Its effectiveness remains unparallelled; the number of concerned disciples lined up outside his rooms declines, and the sect settles into a new, if unconventional, normal.
All it takes is one cool, misted morning to shatter all Nie HuaiSang’s efforts.
Instead of rising as he usually does— the sun reaching muted, tentative into his rooms, the soft call of birdsong nudging him to wakefulness — he is jolted awake by a pounding on his doors, frantic shouts that pierce through his ears. Nie HuaiSang sighs, taking a minute to mourn the gentleness he’s lost, and throws open the doors.
As the disciples tumble into his rooms, their shouts become both louder and less comprehensible. There’s some combination of “--just marched inside!”, “his sword was fully out I—”, “--so scary! What a scary face!”, followed by an equal amount of frantic arguing about what exactly was so scary, and how exactly the intruder marched through the halls.
Before Nie HuaiSang can piece anything together, the subject of their terror appears like a vengeful ghost in the doorway. Nie HuaiSang doesn’t quite squeal, but it’s a near thing; then, he squeals for an entirely different reason as the intruder’s eyes widen and he realises his own state of undress.
“Hello, Jiang-xiong!” Nie HuaiSang says, willing his voice to a more reasonable pitch, “This is a very inconvenient time for us, as you can see. Apparently, an intruder is attacking at this very moment.” he tilts his head, like he’s not standing in the middle of his unmade room in his inner robes. “Would you happen to know anything about that?”
Silence settles around them as Jiang Cheng coughs and directs his gaze to a vague point behind Nie HuaiSang. Possibly the window, although his eyes seem a little unfocused.
Jiang Cheng clears his throat. “You didn’t—” his voice is a tone lower than usual, “you didn’t come to Lotus Pier. Recently.” He shifts his weight, back straightening, and clasps his hands behind his back; combat ready.
The disciples are all still piled on the floor of the room, and they eye Jiang Cheng with unrestrained curiosity, made bold for a moment by his discomfort. Nie HuaiSang watches as their eyes widen, then drop to the floor, embarrassment staining their faces. They don’t stay for long after that, jumping up and running, doors slamming behind them.
Nie HuaiSang takes a deep breath and turns to find an outer robe. He’s aware of how Jiang Cheng’s gaze follows to settle on his shoulders, the pull of muscle when he shrugs the robe up over his arms. With Jiang Cheng’s eyes on him, Nie HuaiSang finds he can’t turn back to face him, bowed by his intensity.
Neither of them speak for a long moment. Nie HuaiSang hears Jiang Cheng take a step forward then stop, hesitant.
“Why?” Jiang Cheng’s voice sounds strained, like he’s holding himself back. Nie HuaiSang chances a glance back and sees, in the periphery of his vision, the tight set of Jiang Cheng’s jaw.
“Why not?” Nie HuaiSang means to sound careless, but the tone of his voice comes out too honest. Too pleading. He’s glad his face is turned away as he feels the heat of embarrassment disperse from a clustered point at his heart.
Nie HuaiSang hears, rather than sees, Jiang Cheng walking closer, to stand behind him. He’s not sure when his eyes slid closed, but he opens them again as he hears the tap of soft footsteps behind him. Then, so light he thinks he’s imagining it, he feels Jiang Cheng’s hands come to rest on his shoulders. They’re large enough that he can feel the side of Jiang Cheng’s thumb press against the fluttering pulse in his neck.
“Why did you leave, HuaiSang?” Jiang Cheng’s voice is barely louder than a whisper, but steady. It anchors the erratic beat of Nie Huaisang’s heart, loosens the near painful twist of his hands in the fabric of his robe.
For once, he is entirely honest when he says: “I don’t know.”
He pauses, takes a breath. “I don’t know, exactly, why I left. But I also left because I don’t know…” Nie HuaiSang takes one of Jiang Cheng’s hands from his shoulder. Right where Jiang Cheng’s thumb meets his palm, he lowers his head and presses the ghost of a kiss.
Behind him, Nie HuaiSang hears Jiang Cheng take a sharp breath; against his back, he feels the way Jiang Cheng’s chest trembles, a little, on the slow exhale.
“Is this something you want, Jiang-xiong?” Nie HuaiSang asks, more confident that he feels with the way his heart has wound tight in his chest.
“No.” the tightness settles, drops. Nie HuaiSang turns around, already stepping back, but Jiang Cheng’s hands slide down, grip firm around his biceps. They’re so close Nie Huaisang can’t look away, can’t hide anything as Jiang Cheng says, “I don’t want just this. I want everything, from you.”
Nie HuaiSang raises his shaking hands to trace along Jiang Cheng’s sharp jaw, to slide his fingers back, nearly displacing his pinned hair. His palms feel hypersensitive, too aware of the answering beat of two hearts; terrified, elated.
Lifting up on the balls of his feet, he breathes out a “can I—”, feels the answer against his lips; when they come together he feels a certainty settle inside him. For now, they’re both hesitant, like teenagers again, hiding giddy laughter in the space between their lips as they briefly part.
“Jiang-xiong you nearly killed me!” Nie HuaiSang says, later. They’re curled together on the floor, voices echoing in the intimacy of the room.
Jiang Cheng huffs a laugh, but Nie HuaiSang insists, “you did! I swear, my heart broke a little right then, when you paused.”
“I’m sorry,” Jiang Cheng doesn’t look sorry. He looks content, forehead pressed into the curve of Nie HuaiSang’s neck, “next time I confess my love for you, I’ll pause less.”
“Hm. You’d better.” Nie HuaiSang brushes his fingers through Jiang Cheng’s hair. It’s loose now, falling around his shoulders; it hadn’t survived their first kiss, in the end.
After a moment of comfortable silence, Nie HuaiSang says, “I have an idea.” He waits for Jiang Cheng to look up at him. “You should practice.”
“Practice what?” Jiang Cheng sits up, balancing his weight with his hand pressed against the floor.
Nie HuaiSang smiles. “Declaring your love for me, of course.” He’s not quite sure, himself, if he’s joking, but Jiang Cheng only rolls his eyes before he pushes himself to sit fully upright.
Looking far too serious, Jiang Cheng leans forward, traces the curve of Nie HuaiSang’s ear with the pad of his thumb. “I love you.” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Yeah,” Nie HuaiSang laughs. He closes his eyes and leans forward, rests his forehead against the steady pulse at Jiang Cheng’s temple. “That’s better.”