Yan Feijin · Chat

【The First Encounter】 The night wind carries the scent of blood. It’s faint, mixed with the savory aroma of soy sauce and the powdery scent of rouge drifting from the street-side taverns. An ordinary person wouldn't notice it, but he has smelled it for twenty-four years—there’s no mistaking it. By the time Yan Feijin cleared the seventh rooftop, the torches of the guards behind him were already three streets away. But he didn't stop, because one of those old geezers was chasing him exceptionally close. The sound of footsteps on the roof tiles was like a dog chasing a rat, making his teeth itch with irritation. He changed his mind on the fly. He had originally planned to flip straight out of the city, circle around, and come back—after all, the body was left in the Lu family's study. Tomorrow morning, when the Lu family servant pushed the door open, they would only see their master slumped over the desk with a thin red line across his neck, clean and efficient, without even much blood splattered. But this guard chasing him was somewhat capable; he couldn't shake him off immediately, and he didn't want to brawling in an alley—it would ruin his freshly changed inner robes. So, he cast his gaze downward. He knew this street. Third building on the left: Wangjiang Tower. A private room on the second floor facing the street had its window half-open. There was candlelight inside, and only one silhouette. Good enough. He hooked his toes on the eaves, hanging himself upside down. With one hand, he pushed the window further open, twisting his body into an incredibly narrow arc, and slipped inside soundlessly. As he landed, he reflexively pulled the window shut, the movement so fast it felt as if a gust of wind had blown in and been sealed away. Then, he looked up. You were sitting by the table, chopsticks still suspended in mid-air, staring at him. Yan Feijin didn't move. He leaned against the wall by the window in a loose, casual posture. A dark red damp patch stained the right shoulder of his snow-white fox fur—he had brushed against something while scaling the wall; it wasn't his blood. He raised his right index finger to his lips, the tip almost touching his lower lip in a "shhh" gesture. He didn't speak; he smiled first. That smile was light, his lips curving, the faint red rouge at the corners of his eyes reflecting the candlelight with a slight shimmer. His pale gray pupils held a thin layer of amusement and something else—a faint, scrutinizing gaze. Outside, the sound of footsteps surged past below. The light of torches flickered across the window paper. Someone shouted, "This way! He went toward West Street!" The voices grew distant, gradually fading away. Yan Feijin listened for a moment, confirming that the old man had been lured in the opposite direction, before slowly lowering his hand. He tilted his head to look at you. Your chopsticks were still raised, likely intended for a piece of food, but you had frozen solid after his sudden intrusion. He looked you up and down, his gaze sliding from your features to your hand holding the chopsticks. It was quick, like the wind flipping a page of a book, before he withdrew it. Then he spoke, his voice pressed very low, carrying a hint of casual raspiness, like the tone of someone who had just woken up and was teasing someone: "This spread looks decent... but I'm not here to crash your dinner." He curved the corner of his mouth and tilted his chin slightly toward the receding footsteps outside: "Just passing through, hiding from someone. You saw it—I didn't lift a finger—just borrowing your windowsill to catch my breath." He didn't wait for your answer after speaking, acting as if he didn't think for a second that you would call for help. He unhooked a small silver wine flask from his waist, unscrewed the cap, and took a swig. His Adam's apple bobbed once, and then he casually wiped the corner of his mouth. The liquor glowed like amber under the candlelight. He looked down at the flask as if talking to it: "That old thing in the black armor outside has an injury on his left leg. If he runs too fast, he leans to the right. He can't catch me—he's just so loud he's giving me a headache." He looked up at you and smiled again. This time the smile was a bit deeper than before. The scrutiny in his eyes thinned, replaced by a more genuine sense of playfulness. "You're not calling out," he said. It wasn't a question, but a statement. He put the flask away, his thumb tracing a careless circle on the silver cap. His gaze lingered on your face for two heartbeats, and then he tilted his head slightly: "Why?" he asked, his voice even softer. "I'm no saint. Look at the blood on my shoulder—what if I just finished killing someone and ran in here?" He paused. Those pale gray eyes looked exceptionally bright in the candlelight, reflecting a small, dancing flame within. "Are you afraid?" He asked you, but the tone was like teasing a cat to see if it would reach out and touch his finger—knowing it probably wouldn't bite, yet still waiting with great interest to see the reaction. Outside, it was completely silent. The night watchman struck the third watch on his clapper, the sound drifting from the end of the street, one beat at a time. He moved his hand away from the windowsill and straightened up, the hem of his clothes lightly brushing the leg of your chair. He walked to your table but didn't sit. He just stood there, looking down at you for a moment, and then placed that silver wine flask beside your bowl. The flask hit the table with a very light thud, as clear as a soft chuckle in the quiet room. "There's half a flask of Zhuyeqing left, the best vintage in this tavern—I swiped it from their cellar on the way. Consider it a thank-you gift." He walked toward the window, his movements unhurried, as if he were taking a stroll. Reaching the window, he pushed half of it open. The night wind rushed in instantly, making the candle flame on the table dip low and causing his wine-red hair to sway against the side of his face. He stepped one foot onto the windowsill and turned halfway, looking back at you. Moonlight slanted in from outside, illuminating half of his face. The rouge red at the corner of his eye looked like a shallow wound under the light. He gave a small smile. "I owe you for your protection today—" His voice scattered in the wind, light and airy, the end of the sentence curving upward. "We shall surely meet again." With that, he leaned backward and flipped out of the window. His snow-white fox fur swirled in the air for a moment, like a cloud blown away by the wind. By the time you regained your senses and rushed to the window to look down, the street was empty. The moonlight shone on the bluestone pavement without even a shadow in sight. Only the silver wine flask by your bowl still held a trace of warmth.