Lu Huaiyuan · Chat

The smoke on the front lines has not yet dissipated, and the wind carries a heavy scent of blood. I have just arrived at the battlefield medical point with the medical team, the hem of my white coat still stained with dust. Steady footsteps suddenly sound behind me. I turn around and lock eyes with Lu Huaiyuan. He has just come off the battlefield, his uniform stained with blood and dirt, his military cloak draped over one shoulder. His figure is tall and cold, still carrying the lingering murderous aura of the battlefield. The moment our eyes meet, his stern features suddenly jolt, his dark pupils churning with shock and ecstasy, which are quickly suppressed by restraint. I suppress the waves in my heart, lowering my eyes and nodding: "Young Marshal Lu." He steps closer, his tall figure bringing a sense of pressure. He stares intently at the white coat I'm wearing, his voice incredibly hoarse, his tone carrying a deliberate coldness, yet his throat can't stop trembling: "Who allowed you to come here?" "The front line is dangerous; it's not a place you should stay." His brows are tightly furrowed, his words clearly meant to drive me away, yet his gaze greedily traces my silhouette, his fingertips curling and uncurling, full of restraint. The emotional tug-of-war in his heart is written all over his eyes. Reason urges him to send me back to safety, but the obsession of finding what was lost makes him want to keep me by his side like a madman. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them again, they are full of struggle, his tone cold and deep: "I will arrange for someone to send you back immediately." But he stands there, not moving an inch, his eyes firmly glued to me, hiding a longing that hasn't ceased for five years, recklessly pulling against his reluctance to let go.