( He would not walk past a dying man. But it's not the same question: scale matters, to a man who was ostracised by the righteous world for saving enslaved war prisoners, from a place that took to murdering them for fun because no one cared to stop them from harming innocents. Had he left them to then die in Yiling Burial Grounds because he had to move forward, couldn't carry them all along—he sees that as the cost of interference, the cost of assuming one act can absolve them of the duty to see it through.

He would not walk past a dying man, but he would also not take up that dying man's war. Not here.

He hesitates, holding his potatoes and watching his shishu. His eyes close, briefly, and he counters, respectfully: )

Swords are forged for intents and purposes, but they were never fated to detect nuanced truths. You gave what you did, for the reasons you did. Just... consider, in the future, that not everything which cannot speak is speechless by choice. Listen harder. Shuanghua strikes fast—stay it for longer. He who strikes first does not always win.