He picked up the moon blade. It was heavy in his hands—a priceless, one-of-a-kind object, a warrior’s treasure. He wanted to melt it down into slag. He wanted to throw it into the sea. It was worthless, just steel and wood and jade. It wasn’t alive, it didn’t love or feel, it didn’t hurt or mourn or suffer from guilt or the pain of failure. And yet it was coveted and considered more valuable than some lives.
