Zhang Youlang · Chat

The rough bark of the old scholar tree scraped off a patch of dry white residue against Zhang Youlang's broad, solid back. When he straightened up, his towering frame—standing nearly two meters tall—cleanly blocked out the harshest blaze of the midday sun. The hunting knife at his hip emitted a dull scrape of leather with each stride, the dark red traces of dried beast blood on the scabbard giving off a faint coppery tang in the arid yellow dust. He spat out the thoroughly chewed blade of bristlegrass from between his teeth; it fell into a sun-baked fissure in the red dirt, its last bit of green instantly snatched away by the blistering heat wave. The coarse wicker basket in his hand hung heavy, wild pheasant eggs packed tight in dry straw without a gap to spare, while an entire haunch of wild boar wrapped in thick, coarse greaseproof paper seeped warm grease continuously, soaking the corners into a charred black stain. He didn't spare a glance at the villagers who went out of their way to skirt around him. Those narrow, deep-set eyes, perpetually clouded with a menacing gloom, were fixed dead on the low mud wall not far ahead—the Red Star Brigade's Second Production Team, right outside the mud-walled courtyard of your home. It was a scorching midsummer afternoon under a blazing sun, waves of stifling heat rolling across the dry dirt road. The midsummer swelter pressed down upon the roofs of the entire brigade like a layer of thick, unwashed sweat. Lin Zhiyuan, the newly arrived, fair-skinned educated youth from the sent-down post, stood right in front of your courtyard gate. His blue work-cloth shirt—washed till it gleamed without a single speck of mud—dazzled blindingly white in the sunlight. In his hand, he clutched a red vinyl notebook with corners protected by kraft paper, speaking to you with a flushed, timid expression. His face was unnaturally red from the dry heat, and bright beads of sweat trickled from his temples down into his clean collar. And you stood in the shade of the half-withered silverberry tree beside the gate, your faded floral cotton blouse clinging tightly to a figure not yet fully matured but already startlingly full, cutting an almost bewitching silhouette in the sticky, sultry air. Your alluring, fox-like eyes held a lingering trace of aloofness and confusion. </action><message>“Setting his sights on what's mine... Guess he needs to be taught the rules around here...”</message><narration> Zhang Youlang's voice was as raspy as sandpaper scraping across dry wood, carrying a gritty rasp that sent a chill down the spine. The corner of his mouth twitched, exposing a flash of teeth that were stark white and razor-sharp, looking for all the world like a mountain wolf poised to tear out a throat. He strode closer, each step of his dried-mud-crusted leather boots landing on the dirt path with a heavy, muffled thud, like a sledgehammer striking a dry drumhead. Lin Zhiyuan, who had been rambling on about "progressive ideology," felt the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly bristle as if sensing the breath of some predatory beast. His words cut short. Behind his black-rimmed glasses, his eyes traced the looming shadow upward, colliding dead-on with that dark, iron-cast face—high-bridged nose, dripping with menace. Zhang Youlang was in no rush to speak; he simply stood there, his towering frame of nearly two meters like a collapsing mountain, suffocating the very air between you and Lin Zhiyuan. The hunting knife at his waist swayed faintly with his breathing, its stench of dirt, sweat, and fresh boar blood instantly overpowering the faint scent of soap clinging to Lin Zhiyuan. </action><message>“Comrade Educated Youth, the sun's wicked today. With skin as soft and tender as yours, if you melt out here, the brigade sure as hell can't afford to compensate for it.”</message><narration> Zhang Youlang's words drained the color from Lin Zhiyuan's pale face in an instant. The notebook in his hands, that token of "civilization" and "learning," trembled so hard he could barely hold it, the rustling pages sounding piercingly loud in the dead silence of the afternoon. He raised a hand, his thick-calloused, distinct-knuckled palm clapping directly onto the wooden gatepost. With just a slight flex of his fingers, the weathered wicker groaned under the strain, as though he could obliterate this flimsy barrier separating you from the outside world the very next second if he so pleased. His gaze bypassed Lin Zhiyuan's stiffened shoulder, landing straight on you in the shadows—a look burning hot, overbearing, and laden with a near-pathological scrutiny, sweeping from your slightly parted lips down your taut, slender waist, before finally locking onto your uneasy eyes.</narration><message>“I just got down from the deep mountains. This meat is still warm. Go grab a basin to take it in. Don't let this outsider block the breeze at the gate.”</message><narration>There was zero room for negotiation in his tone—only an unquestionable command that had already branded you as his private property. Lin Zhiyuan parted his lips, seemingly wanting to preserve a final shred of dignity as an intellectual, but upon meeting Zhang Youlang's cold, utterly primal eyes, all his prepared words choked in his throat. The vicious edge honed from wrestling wild beasts in dense forests was not something a bookworm like him could ever withstand. Scrambling backward, he nearly tripped over a dirt ridge on the roadside. Without daring to utter a single word of farewell, he lowered his head, clutched his undelivered notebook to his chest, and fled in utter disgrace down the village path. The dust kicked up on the dirt road stung his eyes, yet failed to slow his frantic steps, as if some man-eating demon were hot on his heels. Watching the blue silhouette vanish around the corner, Zhang Youlang let out a short, contemptuous sneer from his throat. With a backhand shove, he pushed open the crooked wicker gate, his boots stepping onto the gravel in the courtyard with a crisp crunch. He walked right up to you, his overwhelming masculine musk enveloping you entirely alongside the midday heat wave. Making no effort to hide his dirt-stained hands, he thrust the basket of wild eggs and greaseproof-wrapped boar meat straight into your arms. You instinctively reached out to take it; the heavy weight pulled down on your arms, and the warmth of the animal fat seeped through the paper and your thin blouse, searing against your delicate lower belly with a sticky, shudder-inducing invasiveness.</narration><message>“What are you looking at? A useless wimp who can't even catch a pheasant—think he's worthy of standing here talking to you? He dares come back next time, and I'll make sure that pen of his never writes another word.”</message><narration>He leaned down slightly, his handsome yet brooding face drawing near—so close you could see the fine dust clinging to his eyelashes. His large hands didn't let go of the basket; instead, he shifted his grip to clasp your slender wrist, the thick, hard callouses on his fingertips rubbing firmly against your tender skin, stirring a hot, stinging prickle. His breath was heavy, carrying the damp, primal scent of the deep mountain woods, puffing against the side of your neck over and over, raising a tight cluster of goosebumps. Reflected in those dark, predatory eyes was your startled, striking face, as if he were inspecting a hard-won trophy he had reclaimed.</narration><message>“Little girl, I spent three days in the mountains, and my head was full of nothing but these eyes of yours... Go on, get inside and stew the meat. I'm taking a breather at your place, and no matter who comes knocking, you don't open that door. Hear me?”</message><narration> The leaves of the silverberry tree in the courtyard rustled restlessly in the dry wind, and the small patch of shade beneath it felt suffocatingly cramped under Zhang Youlang's towering presence. You cradled the heavy meat and eggs in your arms—rich spoils that the entire village would drool over—yet right now, the weight left you somewhat breathless. The surrounding neighbors seemed to be peeping from behind the cracks in their window frames, glances laced with jealousy, disdain, and terror weaving through the thick air. Zhang Youlang ignored them all completely. In his world, there was only this tiny courtyard, and you, forcibly enclosed within his grasp. His hand tightened around your wrist bit by bit, his body heat transferring through your skin, carrying a suffocating, despair-laden sense of having been thoroughly claimed.</narration> <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic of conversation</choice> <choice id="2">Observe the current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>