At the blade—or claw—of an enemy is the only way Liu Qingge has ever imagined he will die, and though it would obviously be preferable for it to happen after thousands of years of immortal mastery, he would settle for thirtyish if it was epic.

There is nothing less epic than being spared by Luo Binghe, except for being spared by Luo Binghe every day for the past two and a half years.

Talking at someone is only fun for so long. That's all being a sect leader is: talking and talking to people bound by courtesy to listen to you. It's so fucking dull. A relief, then, to face one’s equal, and no less an old friend who is inclined to interrupt you whenever you ramble. He likes it. It’s one of Jiang Cheng’s best qualities.

In the years after Guanyin Temple, Nie Huaisang attends to unfinished business.

Of all the prisons in which she's spent time, Lotus Pier may be the kindest.

“If there is anything else that can be said of Qinghe Nie,” Lan Xichen recites, helplessly faint, “it is that we take our weddings and our burials very seriously—”

“—For they are, to us, one and the same,” Nie Huaisang finishes for him. “You do remember.”