[ A wave of something very close to grief washes over him, and he pierces his lips tightly, face scrunching with the effort of pushing the feeling away. No. He won't cry in front of Hanguang-jun again. He's already lost what little face he had. He won't again. Never again. ]

I don't want his thanks. [ And yet, his voice is rough with the emotion he tries not to let seep into his face. He might be wearing the colours of the Jin, but his face has always born the hallmarks of the Jiang. ]

If he doesn't owe me justice, he can't owe me thanks, either. All I want--

[ But he cut himself off, clenching teeth hard. An uncle. A family. A place.

A child's wish, and he knew it.

No more losing face in front of Hanguang-jun.

Belatedly - as if he recalled his manners a century too late, he put his arms out in front of himself, clasping his hands. Bowed. Stiff. Not low enough. The duration too short. But an attempt.

He rises, and immediately ruins it.]

Just don't let it all happen again, here.

[ He says it without meaning to, and it's hardly an order. It's a plea. His parents, newly revived, alive and well, and he's as terrified of losing them as he is of getting to know them. ]

It has to be different, here. I'll make sure it's different.

[ He'll save them all from themselves, if he has to. If it means that for once in his life, he isn't shadowed solely by death and grief: child of a hundred murders. ]