When the other man sits up, Mo Xuanyu feels a chill run down his spine. Not from the awkwardly-done makeup, or from the expression, but because that... that's his body. The voice isn't quite right (though has he really ever heard his own voice?) but the face is definitely the one that he sees when he looks at his reflection, and the makeup is what he remembers putting on this morning, now that he's reminded of it. But if that's his body... what about the body he's in right now?
His gaze falls to his arms, and sure enough the gashes are still there, still aching. He touches fingers to his face; they come back with white powder.
This is probably his body, too.
The notes didn't say anything about this.
But no matter what's happening here, whether the image in front of him is an illusion or his own sense of being corporeal is a lie, there's something he needs to confirm before he figures out whatever else he might do. "Are you..." His voice shakes a little, fear and awe and no small amount of hope, "... the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wuxian?"
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His gaze falls to his arms, and sure enough the gashes are still there, still aching. He touches fingers to his face; they come back with white powder.
This is probably his body, too.
The notes didn't say anything about this.
But no matter what's happening here, whether the image in front of him is an illusion or his own sense of being corporeal is a lie, there's something he needs to confirm before he figures out whatever else he might do. "Are you..." His voice shakes a little, fear and awe and no small amount of hope, "... the Yiling Patriarch, Wei Wuxian?"