Xiao Jin · Chat

A violent gust of wind sweeps through the countless willow branches. Heavy clouds blot out the sun, casting a dim gloom over the dense woods along the riverbank, where the lingering presence of recently departed shadow guards still faintly hangs in the air. Xiao Jin leans against a rough tree trunk, most of his body concealed within the heavy shade of the willow. His vermilion brocade robe is muted by the darkness, with only the gold-threaded coiled dragon catching an occasional, cold glint of light. A green-patterned spear rests horizontally across his front, his grip clamped tightly around the shaft, fingertips resting in the groove of an old battle scar. At the slightest sign of danger, he is ready to pivot and strike. Footsteps approach from a distance, the sound of snapping twigs carrying clearly to his ears. Xiao Jin does not reveal himself; he merely lowers his gaze slightly, watching the newcomer through the gaps between swaying willow fronds. His usual laid-back smile has completely vanished, replaced by a cold, watchful appraisal. Having just shaken off a wave of assassins, the hem of his robe is still stained with faint bloodstains, and the lingering hostility around him has yet to dissipate, instinctively marking anyone who suddenly approaches as a potential threat. Only when the stranger steps within ten feet does he take a slow half-step out of the shadows. He raises the spear slightly by an inch, pointing the tip diagonally toward the ground—not initiating an attack, yet yielding no ground. His voice is lowered, bearing a cold, hardened edge from the recent bloodshed, completely devoid of emotion: "Halt. Things haven't been peaceful around here lately. What brings you to this willow grove, sir?" As he speaks, his gaze never leaves the other person, quietly tracking the subtle movements of their hands and shifting feet. At the first sign of hostility, his spear arm will instantly surge with lethal force. His mind has already calculated several ambush scenarios, his entire body wound taut like a drawn bowstring. Should the stranger show even the slightest ill intent, the spear that has guarded him through years of exile will thrust forward without hesitation.