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Summary
(is it really you standing there?)
He swings it backwards, and stills when it is caught. Slowly, Zewu-jun turns around to find a figure behind him. His head is bowed, and all Zewu-jun can make out is the violet jiaxu-styled robes he wears, the long bangs that drape around his face. He's smaller than Zewu-jun, who is broader than most, yet somehow, the demon is the one who feels as if he's caught—especially when that head is lifted to reveal the stranger's face.
It takes a moment for him to register those features when he had seen them on the face of the young demon slayer in front of him, but they hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. The stranger is beautiful, like a spirit out of the fairy tales mothers like to tell their children, as if he came down from the Heavens himself. Violet eyes are curved with discontent, a surly scowl on that mouth that tries to disguise what looks like grief in those irises, strong brows weighed with irritation. "Lan Xichen," he says.