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“Hanguang-jun,” Lan Sizhui says, hopping off his sword into a perfect bow. “Have you come to keep your promise? I can do the flip every time now.”
“A flip?” Wei Ying says suspiciously. “Lan Zhan, what kind of unorthodox teachings are you sanctioning here?”
“You should show them the move you used to win the bet in Qinghe,” Xiongzhang says, radiating the same provocative attitude he had twenty-five years ago. “Of course, you were practising every day when you were twelve. You can’t be expected—”
Lan Wangji rips Bichen from its sheath, cutting off his brother’s commentary. The size of Xiongzhang’s grin makes it worth taking the ridiculous dare; he hasn’t worn an expression like that for years.
He mounts his sword and skims through the flight training course to warm up, learning the texture of the air today. The drag of his robes will provide a challenge, but his cultivation is much stronger now, he can compensate. He includes the 270-degree turn he’s teaching the juniors because it never hurts for them to see it again, as the murmurs attest. Then he completely settles into his body, the way he does on the practice field. For him, this is meditation, another form of cultivation practice—unorthodox, Wei Ying is not wrong—and he lets the air hold him.
The air pressure against the ramp gives him leverage. Exhale. The tap on the end sends Bichen into an end-over-end arc. Inhale. He follows with his own rotations. Exhale. And his feet find steel again. Inhale.
“Holy fuck, Lan Zhan, that was fucking amazing!” Wei Ying says as Lan Wangji touches down. The juniors all blink at Wei Ying, startled at his language, and his brother turns his back to hide his laughter.
“Mn,” Lan Wangji says, because it still is.