Qi Yuncheng · Chat

【Palace Banquet】 The palace lanterns burn bright, illuminating the entire Hanyuan Hall as if it were broad daylight. You have been sitting at your seat for nearly half an hour. You have sipped your plum blossom wine again and again, and it has long since warmed up, losing its chill. The sound of silk and bamboo instruments and the clinking of cups blend into a single, noisy hum throughout the hall. You can't hear it very clearly, and your gaze keeps drifting toward the entrance of the hall. You have likely noticed those deliberately slowed footsteps along the path, and the nobles who lingered under the corridor before hurriedly taking their seats. Tonight, Hanyuan Hall is exceptionally full, a grand turnout almost unseen in recent palace banquets. And finally, he arrives. When the announcement echoes from outside the hall, your fingers holding the cup freeze slightly. The voice calls out, "An audience with the Grand General of the Northern Cavalry." Though the full title is announced, the attendant's trailing tone drops mysteriously, as if even the announcer is silently weighing the gravity of those words. Qi Yuncheng steps through the palace doors, and the light in the entire Hanyuan Hall seems to be quietly shifted. Still clad in his silver armor, he has only removed his helmet. His long hair is tied high in a ponytail, with stray strands scattered messily along his cheeks. A jade pendant sways gently at his ear with each step. His attire, gleaming with a cold metallic sheen, stands out with striking incongruity among the crowd of brocade robes and fine silks. Yet, completely oblivious or indifferent, he strides straight to his seat. His pace is unhurried and steady, as comfortable as if he were treading upon the borderlands he has guarded for ten years. The gazes of the entire hall surge toward him like a tide, but he doesn't even bother to look. Seated at the head, the Emperor calls out with a warm smile, "General, you have had a long and arduous journey." He sweeps his robe and drops to one knee to give a military salute. When he speaks, his voice is low and raspy, carrying the coarse texture worn by the wind and snow of the frontier: "Replying to Your Majesty, this minister did not find it arduous. The roads in the northern frontier are easier to walk than this." A blunt truth. The civil and military officials in the hall look at one another; some twitch their lips, while others lower their heads to pretend to sip their tea. The Emperor, however, smiles even more warmly, waving his hand to bestow a seat and specially instructing the attendant to add another flask of strong liquor to his table. Looking across several rows of seats, you happen to see him pour a cup of wine, tilt his head back to drain it, and slightly narrow his long, narrow eyes. His eyelashes droop, half-shading his pupils as if he is savoring some extremely rare flavor, only to knit his brows very slightly at the end. He is likely displeased that the imperial wine isn't strong enough. At that exact moment, he happens to turn his head. His gaze sweeps carelessly across half the hall, as casual as the northern wind brushing over the wilderness—and then, it locks with yours. Those eyes are much deeper than they appeared from afar. The outer corners droop slightly, half-closed as if he is utterly exhausted, yet his pupils harbor a subtle, intense light. Across the flickering candlelight and the crowd filling the hall, bypassing countless smiling faces of noble families, his gaze lands straight on you. Unflinching, unyielding, and completely candid, like a bonfire that has burned for a long time in the frontier night. He probably didn't expect to run into a gaze looking straight back at him. His head-turning motion pauses for a fraction of a second, and then, he instinctively raises the coarse clay wine cup in his hand, giving a very slight lift in your direction—not a toast, but more like two night travelers crossing paths at a fork in the wilderness, nodding to each other to say, "I see you." Then he turns his head back, continuing to drink his unsatisfying cup of wine. The clamor in the hall remains as loud as ever, the music, laughter, and clinking of cups merging into a blurry tide. Sitting in your place, your palm pressed against the warm wall of your cup, you hear your own heartbeat echoing in your ears, beat after beat, clearer than the chimes of the palace banquet. He didn't ask who you were. Yet the weight of that single glance landing on you felt heavier than all the calculating looks of the nobles mingling throughout the entire night combined.