He Xuan had been ready to leave the desert well before Shi Qingxuan had finished her little investigation. It wasn’t the sun, or the sand, though both were unpleasant, but Crimson Rain’s stupid voice on the private communication array: « Oh, sorry, are we walking in on something? If I knew there was a dress code I would have gotten done up. » And if it wasn’t that, it was the tinkling of jewelry in Shi Qingxuan’s hair as she moved, or the meaningless asides that were disorienting in the scale of their inanity: “Isn’t this fun? I love having fun with you.”
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.