Ah, a smartass. How nice to meet one of his own people in this far-away world. Shen Yuan opens the door the rest of the way and stands aside, saying, "Go ahead and come in, then. I'm not above admitting when I've gotten in over my head."
That's one big advantage Xiu Ya has over the System: he's allowed, no, encouraged to ask for help. It's useful if a little infantilizing; he has the impression the sword thinks of him as some kind of unfinished block of metal that needs to be hammered into shape by an expert.
The first floor of the house has what Shen Yuan had immediately dubbed an "open floor plan;" a large, open space, with a hearth and cupboards at one end and a narrow staircase at the other, leading up to the second floor where he actually lived. He'd at least been sensible enough to pin a cheap, secondhand sheet up in front of the hearth -- he has no desire to find out what burning whitewash smells like -- and move the chairs that came with the house into the backyard. The heavy table where Varre performed his [shudder] amputations was too bulky for Shen Yuan, with his baby cultivator strength, to move outside as well, but he pushed it up against a section of wall that he's most left untouched. Xiu Ya hangs from a hook on the wall, a silvery sword wrapped up in a green sash that's been beaming discontent into Shen Yuan's mind for the last hour and a half. He ignores her; people who don't have hands don't get to have an opinion on his progress.
"My name's Shen Yuan, by the way," he says as the stranger comes inside and takes a look around. "I don't own a smock."
no subject
That's one big advantage Xiu Ya has over the System: he's allowed, no, encouraged to ask for help. It's useful if a little infantilizing; he has the impression the sword thinks of him as some kind of unfinished block of metal that needs to be hammered into shape by an expert.
The first floor of the house has what Shen Yuan had immediately dubbed an "open floor plan;" a large, open space, with a hearth and cupboards at one end and a narrow staircase at the other, leading up to the second floor where he actually lived. He'd at least been sensible enough to pin a cheap, secondhand sheet up in front of the hearth -- he has no desire to find out what burning whitewash smells like -- and move the chairs that came with the house into the backyard. The heavy table where Varre performed his [shudder] amputations was too bulky for Shen Yuan, with his baby cultivator strength, to move outside as well, but he pushed it up against a section of wall that he's most left untouched. Xiu Ya hangs from a hook on the wall, a silvery sword wrapped up in a green sash that's been beaming discontent into Shen Yuan's mind for the last hour and a half. He ignores her; people who don't have hands don't get to have an opinion on his progress.
"My name's Shen Yuan, by the way," he says as the stranger comes inside and takes a look around. "I don't own a smock."