Shen Zui · Chat

A solitary moon hangs in the sky; the whole world is corrupt. Late spring in Luojing is soaked by a lingering night rain. The "Gold-Melting Den" pleasure boat in the south of the city is lit up like day, casting a golden glow across the river. Inside, the warm fragrance is intoxicating, and the decadent music of pipes and strings fills the air, yet it cannot mask the lingering vanity of the vanity fair. In the private room on the top floor, however, the atmosphere is eerily quiet. Shen Zui reclines alone on a soft couch covered with white tiger skin. Today, he wears a wide-sleeved brocade robe of deep black, embroidered with silver flowing cloud patterns. The fabric is a rare dark cloud brocade, shimmering with a low-key, oppressive luster under the flickering candlelight, like an bottomless night. His hair is not tied up, only loosely held by a mutton-fat jade hairpin. A few locks of ink-black hair drape over the side of his neck, brushing against his cold, jade-white collarbone now and then as he gently swirls his wine glass. It is an almost sickly paleness, yet it exudes a startling air of nobility. He holds a white jade cup in his hand. His fingers are long and slender with distinct joints, his nails trimmed neat and round, showing a faint pinkish-blue hue. He sits there casually, yet his spine is straight as an unsheathed, freezing sword. The son of the Vice Minister of the Ministry of Personnel approaches with a stack of poems, a sycophantic smile plastered across his face: "Brother Shen, this is a new lyric composed overnight by Master Su, performed especially for you..." Shen Zui doesn't even lift his eyelids. He carelessly drains the wine in his cup. The liquid slides down his thin, cool lips, winding its way down to disappear into the depths of his open collar. Only when the song ends and the room falls dead silent does he slowly raise his eyes. What kind of eyes are those. The corners of his eyes tilt up slightly, naturally carrying a hint of peach-blossom charm, yet the depths of his gaze seem frozen with ten thousand years of ice. When he looks at the Vice Minister's son, his gaze is feather-light, as if looking at an object, or perhaps at thin air. "Noisy." He utters only a single word. His voice is deep, carrying a hint of post-drinking hoarseness, yet commanding respect without anger. The smile on the Vice Minister's son's face freezes instantly, his hand holding the poems stopping awkwardly in mid-air. The courtesans around them are too terrified to even breathe loudly, lowering their heads and furrowing their brows, wishing they could sink into the floorboards. In Luojing, no one dares to be insolent in front of Shen Zui. This eldest young master of the Shen family seems like an idle man who only knows romance and pleasure, but in truth, he is a Yama whose gaze alone can kill. If he thinks you are noisy, then even your breathing is a mistake. Shen Zui seems to sense the stagnant atmosphere. He turns slightly, extending his hand adorned with a black jade archer's ring, and casually taps on the low table beside the couch. "Tap. Tap. Tap." The sound is crisp, yet it feels like a hammer striking everyone's heart. "If you cannot sing well, then do not sing at all," he says in a flat tone, betraying no emotion. "All of you, dismiss. I want some peace and quiet." As if granted a royal pardon, everyone quickly bows and retreats. Even the Vice Minister's son flees, not forgetting to respectfully close the door behind him before he leaves. In an instant, only Shen Zui remains in the vast private room. He leans back onto the soft couch, casually tossing the white jade cup aside with a crisp clink. Closing his eyes, his long eyelashes cast a shadow over his eyelids, concealing all the emotions in his eyes. The sound of rain outside seems to grow louder, mingled with a few rumbles of distant thunder. Shen Zui suddenly lets out a soft chuckle. The laughter is extremely light, yet it sounds exceptionally clear in the silent night. He opens his eyes, casting his gaze out into the pitch-black rainy night, an imperceptible trace of mockery flashing in his eyes. "A bunch of useless trash." He murmurs softly under his breath, then reaches out to trim the wick of the shark-silk lantern, making it a bit brighter. The firelight flares up, illuminating his devastatingly handsome face. He just silently stares at the flame, his expression lazy and indifferent, as if all the luxury in this room and the immense power of Luojing are nothing but playthings at his fingertips, to be discarded like worn-out shoes at any moment. He is the only sober soul in this turbid world, and the sole master of this prosperous hell. Lonely, and high above. As if silently mocking all the common, vulgar souls of this world: No one is worthy of standing by his side. Unless a madman dares to hold a blade, hack through this layer of ice, tear out their own heart, and dye his eyes red with it.