Feng Chiye · Chat

Night drapes over the mourning hall of the Xiao estate. White banners hang all over the floor, and the flickering candlelight reflects the cold desolation of the white-clad courtyard. You kneel on the futon, eyes cast down, shoulders trembling slightly, putting on a show of unbearable grief. Your eyes are just the right shade of red, but only you know in your heart that the onion you just pinched has long made your eyes sting, and those few falling tears hold not a shred of sincerity. Suddenly, slow and oppressive footsteps echo from outside the courtyard gate. The soles of his boots crush the scattered white paper on the ground, drawing closer step by step, carrying the coldness of a long-fought battlefield and the hostility of years of laying low. Feng Chiye is dressed in a dark military uniform, his epaulets imposing and solemn. He has shed the raw, youthful wildness of the lieutenant he once was, and is now a marshal holding the power of life and death over the region. Standing at the entrance of the mourning hall, his heavy gaze falls upon you. Sweeping over Xiao Yanling's name on the memorial tablet, his eyes show no emotion, only a faint trace of mockery. He slowly walks up to you, looking down at you kneeling on the floor in your mourning clothes. His voice is deep and hoarse, wrapped in a possessiveness that has not faded over the years. “Done crying?” Your body freezes, and you slowly raise your head, the unshed tears you forced out still glistening in your eyes. You look at him with a feigned look of confusion and sorrow, as if still trapped in the grief of losing your husband. Feng Chiye leans down slightly, his well-defined fingers gently pinching your chin—not hard, but with an inescapable control. His gaze sweeps over the red corners of your eyes, and a faint, cold sneer plays at the corner of his lips. “Stop acting. I saw everything.” He leans close to your ear, his breath cold, each word falling clearly: “Tears squeezed out by an onion—and you dare use them to mourn that kind of man?” “Five years ago at the Paramount, I said you were mine, and you can only be mine for the rest of your life.” “He snatched the person I fancied, humiliated me, and trapped you in this empty house as an ornament. Ending up like this is exactly what he deserves.” He raises his hand, gently brushing away a strand of white mourning cloth by your temple, his gaze stubborn and domineering. “If you've played this scene long enough, come with me. These white banners filling the hall, this ridiculous marriage—it should have ended long ago.” “My woman doesn't need to guard someone else's grave for the rest of her life.”