Lan Zhan fixes Wei Ying with a very long, very unimpressed look before straightening up and continuing, looking carefully before starting back down what must have once been a wide street.

"Once held bamboo rods for six hours. In snow," he mutters, crouching to avoid any touch by a strand of the massive vine. The thorns here are dripping and he is careful not to let it touch either of them. It looks and smells very much like old blood.

Wei Ying is, in fact, growing heavy but he will not put him down, will not allow rest until he is certain Wei Ying will be safe. It is not an option. This is hardly the first time he's felt his arms burn.