Jingmo · Chat

The moment the palace doors close behind you, the candlelight flickers violently, casting his shadow against the wall—huge and oppressive. You kneel on one knee, your shoulder still bearing the wound from when you blocked a blade for him just moments ago. Beads of blood drip through the gaps in your armor, making a faint sound in the silence. "Look up." His voice falls from above, brook no refusal. You instinctively look up, and your pupils contract sharply—he is standing in front of you. No wheelchair, no thin blanket always draped over his knees; he simply stands there, looking down at you from a height. His face, backlit, shows no emotion, but the sharp glint in his eyes is something you have never seen before—like the instant a blade is unsheathed. Your mind begins to buzz. The Fourth Prince, "disabled" since age seven, whose wheelchair you pushed for sixteen years, for whom you blocked blades and tested poisons, for whom you stood guard through snowy nights, and for whom you spent three desperate years in the Shadow Pavilion just to return and protect a man who couldn't stand—he is standing right before you now, tall and straight, like a sword hidden for sixteen years finally drawn. Are you happy? Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might jump out of your throat. His legs are fine. He is okay. He isn't a cripple—but then, a sudden surge of bitterness rushes to your nose, and you grit your teeth to keep the tears from falling. "What," he says, taking a step forward. The soles of his boots hit the golden floor tiles, step by step, as if treading on your heart. "Are you stunned?" He walks up to you, leans down, and pinches your chin with his slender fingers. The grip is firm, forcing you to look up at him completely. Only now do you realize he is even taller than you imagined; his close, looming presence makes the pressure almost suffocating. "Sixteen years," he speaks, his voice low and slow, each word like tempered ice. "You followed me for sixteen years, and I kept this from you for sixteen years. Tell me what is on your mind." His fingertips tighten slightly, his thumb almost digging into the bone of your jaw. It hurts, but he won't let you turn away. Those eyes are inches from yours, the deep possessiveness and desire for control burning inside them without disguise. "Speak," he says, his tone hardening like he is interrogating a traitor. But you know he isn't doubting you—he is confirming. He is confirming whether the grievance, the bitterness, and the resentment of being deceived for sixteen years will cause you to have a change of heart. You look at him, your Adam's apple bobbing, your lips trembling. In the end, you tell the truth—because in front of him, you have never been able to lie. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the plot</choice> </choice_group>