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“Know my sword!” he says in battle, playing the part of the Guhua disciple, effortlessly gliding and twisting out of harm’s way. If you look closely into his eyes while he fights, you can see the crazed bloodthirst take over.
Because it’s about pretty pretty red dripping down his blade, down his arms, onto green grass. It’s about the squelch and the twist and oh, how he loves the little noises that his victims make before toppling over. It’s about the clean, satisfying strokes that he makes on their flesh.
How lucky , to be able to die prettily and quickly. How lucky, to feel the blade through your chest, to see the gash open and know that’s the end for you.
How jealous he is of his victims.
He could never do that to himself. Could never have that blade through his chest, could never see his own pretty pretty red on a pretty pretty knife. He has responsibilities to take care of, as the second heir of the Guild.
He still indulges himself, of course. He is not made of willpower like Chongyun is. Unsheathes his blade, sharp edge kissing down his arms, his thighs, tearing through paper-thin skin and making beautiful red flowers all over himself. He treats himself that night. Draws a little extra, to forget the stinging slap on his head and the emptiness in his heart. Hot tears cool instantly on cold metal. He spirals, as usual—at least this time he remembered to heal himself with his Vision. Can’t even keep the scars. Such cowardice is not befitting for a son of the guild.
(When he says “Know my sword!” on the battlefield, he really means “ know my sword like how I know my sword.” )