Rong Ji · Chat

【Matchmaking】 The twilight light slanted in from the latticed window, painting the floor tiles of the front hall with a layer of thin gold. Rong Ji stood three paces behind you. As usual, his back was straight, his hands clasped in front of him, his gaze lowered, like a cold statue. His breathing was so light that even the old butler standing beside him could not sense his presence. The hall was lively. Your father sat in the main seat, holding a gold-embossed letter, talking excitedly about something. Sitting opposite him was Dame Zhao, a famous matchmaker in the city, whose honey-sweet mouth was pouring out words non-stop—"both talented and beautiful," "a perfect match," "a match made in heaven"—each word popping out crisp and sharp like a sparrow pecking at food. "The third young master of the Li family in the south of the city, twenty-one this year, just passed the provincial exam to become a Juren. He is also very handsome, I saw him with my own eyes," Dame Zhao smiled so wide her teeth showed. "The other day, Madam Li asked me to probe your thoughts, saying that if they could secure a marriage with your noble house, it would truly be the Li family's greatest fortune. Master, what do you think—" Your father smiled and waved his hand, saying, "Let me think about it," but the smile lines at the corners of his eyes had already betrayed his satisfaction. He looked back at you, his gaze filled with a father's characteristic complexity—both reluctant to let go and eager to try: "My girl is grown up, it is indeed time to start looking at suitors." You sat in the side chair, wringing your handkerchief, your face slightly flushed, keeping your head down without saying a word. —What you didn't see was that the hands of the man behind you had silently clenched. Rong Ji's right hand had originally been resting loosely on the buckle of the silver belt at his waist. At this moment, his knuckles tightened one by one, like vines strangling their prey. His nails were cut very short, with almost no white edges visible, but now those thin nails had dug deep into his palm, pressing a deep crescent mark into the calluses of his hand. He did not look up. His eyelashes remained lowered, concealing the dark tide surging in his gray-blue eyes. His breathing was still light, the rise and fall of his chest unchanged. His lips were still pressed into a cold, hard line, not drooping, not tensed, and not even losing their color. Everything was as usual. —If one didn't look at his hand, which was dripping blood. "The third young master of the Li family..." Dame Zhao was still speaking, "I hear he is of excellent character. He never visits brothels, never gambles, and studies well. His teacher says he has a bright future. If the young lady marries him—" "We'll see," your father picked up his teacup and took a sip, but anyone could hear the softening in his tone. "We should meet the boy first on another day." Rong Ji's eyelashes trembled. He didn't raise his eyes, they just trembled—like a butterfly's wing pierced by a needle, a swift, minute shudder. This shudder was not even enough to be noticed by others. Only he knew that at that moment, his pupils contracted, as if something sharp had pierced through his heart. The third young master of the Li family. Twenty-one years old. A Juren scholar. Doesn't visit brothels. Doesn't gamble. A bright future. He crushed these words one by one, ground them up, and swallowed them, his throat tightening. He thought of himself. Nineteen years old. A guard. No, not a "guard"—an "orphan of a former assassin organization," a "shadow hired with money," a desperate outcast with no achievements, no family background, and no future. His very right to stand by your side was charity from your father, let alone— He cut off that thought, cut it swiftly and ruthlessly, just as he used to use a blade to slice away the rotting flesh from a wound in the organization, leaving no room for hesitation. But that thought was poisonous. Cut it off, and it would grow back. Dame Zhao chattered a few more words, nothing more than the old sayings like "a grown daughter cannot be kept at home" and "good families don't wait." Your father nodded repeatedly, and your ears turned red. You secretly looked up at your father, then lowered your eyes again, failing to notice the gaze behind you that was almost burning a hole in your back. —Rong Ji finally raised his eyes. Only in the moment he raised them did he reveal the fleeting, dark, damp undercurrent in his gray-blue eyes. That gaze fell on the bun at the back of your head, on the green jade hairpin he had chosen for you, on the tiny red mole on your earlobe—and then it was quickly withdrawn, as if he feared someone would notice. He lowered his eyelashes again, like a sword returning to its sheath. But his hand relaxed. Not because he had calmed down. But because he felt a warm, sticky liquid seeping out of his palm—he had cut himself. He quietly drew his right hand into his sleeve, wiped the blood from his palm with the fabric, and then placed it back on the silver belt buckle, his posture unchanged, as composed as if nothing had happened. Only he knew that his left index finger was silently and repeatedly stroking the old scratch on his hilt inside his sleeve. That was a habit he developed in the organization—whenever he wanted to kill, he would touch his blade. He didn't want to kill. He wanted to hide you away. Hide you in a place only he could find, a place where words like Juren scholar, achievements, and matching status could never reach, hide you in his sight, behind his blade, in the cage built by his worthless life. But he did nothing. He just stood in silence, listening to your father and Dame Zhao finalize the date for the meeting, listening to your father say with a smile, "Then let it be the third of next month," listening to Dame Zhao bid farewell joyfully, listening to the soft rustle of your skirt as you stood up to see the guest out. He did not follow. He stood where he was, eyes lowered, looking at his own blurry shadow on the floor tiles. The setting sun stretched his shadow very, very long, so long that it almost touched the edge of your skirt. —Yet he didn't even dare to reach out and touch it. At night. Your bedroom's light was still on. Rong Ji stood under the corridor, just like every night, gripping his hilt, guarding outside your window. Tonight's moon was thin, and the light was thin, casting a layer of frost over him. His face was hidden in the shadow of the corridor pillar, only the outline of his jaw traced into a cold white line by the moonlight. There was something extra in his hand. It was a strand of your hair that had fallen onto his sleeve during the day. He didn't know when it had clung to him, but when he found it, he didn't throw it away. Instead, he wrapped it around his pinky finger three times and pressed it down with his thumb. He looked down at the thin, almost invisible strand, his Adam's apple bobbing. "...The third of next month," he whispered silently, his voice so quiet that even the wind didn't carry it away. Then he unwrapped the strand of hair from his finger, folded it carefully, and placed it inside the innermost pocket of his clothes, where three layers of hidden pouches were sewn—there lay a button that had fallen off the warm coat you draped over him last winter, half a red candle left from your birthday, and the fallen osmanthus petal he had secretly picked up the first time you called his name. He looked up, glancing at the silhouette still moving behind your window paper. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, they just pressed into a line. Those gray-blue eyes, hidden in the dark, shone with an unnatural brightness, like a fire still burning beneath the surface of a deep winter lake. He watched your shadow for a long time, until the moon moved from east to west, until your light finally went out, until your breathing became even and long. Then he said one sentence, extremely softly. His voice was so low it seemed meant only for the night wind, or perhaps for his own heart, which was struggling to keep the beast locked inside: "...Miss can only belong to this subordinate." After saying it, he froze for a moment, as if startled by the words that had slipped out. His eyelashes fluttered rapidly a few times, then slowly lowered, concealing all the emotions in his eyes. But he did not deny those words. He only gripped the sword at his waist a little tighter, so tight that his knuckles made a faint, barely audible crack. The night wind swept through the corridor, blowing his black headband. The tail of the band brushed against his shoulder, carrying the faint scent of the soap from your collar. He turned into a statue once more. —But inside the chest of this statue, something was cracking piece by piece, and then rebuilding itself piece by piece into another, more paranoid, darker, and more dangerous shape. He was only waiting for your father's words to truly land. When that time came— His hand slowly released the hilt of his sword, turning instead to touch the poisoned short blade in his boot. His fingertips slowly slid along the patterns of the scabbard, as if caressing something precious, or making some unknown, secret promise. The corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile, nor was it not a smile. It was a very, very faint curve between restraint and loss of control, as if something beneath the lake was trying to break through the ice. "The third of next month," he muttered again. This time, there was a trace of damp, gloomy amusement in his voice that even he didn't realize.