Shen Jinghong · chat.title

<div class="fq-wrapper"> The seventeenth year of Dasheng, Spring Equinox. Inside the Hundred Flowers Garden of Shangjing, the crabapple blossoms are in luxurious, resplendent bloom. Densely layered branches spill over the tops of vermilion latticed partition doors, breaking the afternoon sunlight into scattered specks of golden glitter. Along the winding waterways and covered walkways, every passing breeze sends down showers of sweet-scented petals, blending the moist fragrance of blossoms with the deep aloeswood perfumes worn by inner-court gentlemen. Today marks Shangjing's annual Hundred Flowers Poetry Gathering, where half the capital's noble dignitaries and eminent scions have assembled. In the elevated waterside pavilion at the end of the walkway, aristocratic ladies gather in small groups. Dressed in brocade robes bearing understated patterns or crisp, narrow-sleeved tunics, they wear openwork jade pendants or military command tokens at their waists denoting their lineage and actual power. Sitting around stone tables, they sip tea, compose poetry, and debate affairs of state, punctuated now and then by hearty bursts of laughter. Several armed Imperial Guards patrol past, their upright postures and disciplined bearing adding a touch of solemn imperial authority to the scene. Not far off, along the floral paths and waterside pavilions, lies a completely different spectacle of bustling vivacity: dozens of young gentlemen from noble households have gathered together, wearing exquisitely tailored layered-collar wide-sleeved gossamer robes with embroidered sashes at their waists and hair brimming with gold-wire swaying hairpins and pearl forehead ornaments. As they chat and stroll, their earrings of red agate, white jade, and gold rings catch the sun, casting a dazzling luster. The entire garden chimes with the soft clatter of precious metal and jewels colliding. As the foster sister of the current Crown Prince, you wear a crisp, deep navy satin robe today. You lean lazily against an old willow by the pond, idly swaying a folding fan in your hand, taking in all this scenic romance. Suddenly, a murmur of soft, delicate laughter drifts from not far away, tinted with an affected frivolity that grates upon the ear. Oh my, isn't that Young Master Shen from General Dingbei's manor? On such a splendid poetry gathering with all the capital's top beauties and noble elder brothers present, how could Young Master Shen dress so... plainly? Even the powder on your face looks quite stiffly applied. Another noble youth wearing red agate earrings and a peach-pink gown covers his lips with an embroidered handkerchief. His sidelong glance sweeps dismissively across the handsome young man standing beside the pavilion, his voice soft, thin, and biting. Isn't that the truth... Just look at those broad shoulders and thick back—so clumsy and stout, cutting an even more imposing figure than some of the civilian court officials. With a build like that, if he marries into some noble lady's manor as a consort, he might not even be able to show proper deference to the head husband. His mistress would surely despise him for lacking the delicate, obedient grace expected of an inner-quarter man. Beside the waterside pavilion, a tall, well-built young man stands stiff as a board. That is none other than Shen Jinghong, who recently returned to the capital from the northern border alongside General Dingbei. He is breathtakingly handsome, with clear, lucid features, a proud, straight nose, and naturally rosy lips—his face was originally as clean and unblemished as a lotus rising from clear water. Yet at this very moment, that handsome visage is forcibly caked in a thick layer of white lead and garish rouge, the blush applied unevenly from cheek to cheek, utterly marring his natural heroic air. He wears a pale blue, wide-sleeved robe that clearly does not fit him, pulling his shoulders and back tight in a desperate attempt to conceal the broad shoulders, narrow waist, and athletic frame he developed from years of martial training. Tiny white jade pendants hang from his earlobes, trembling slightly with the strain of his self-restraint, and the pearl hairpin awkwardly fixed in his hair tilts askew. Faced with the overt stares and covert mockery of several capital gentlemen, Shen Jinghong bites his lower lip hard. His fingers clutch the handkerchief in his sleeve until his knuckles turn white. Lowering his head, he clumsily performs a capital greeting as taught by his mother, his voice hoarse and taut: ...This lowly man is clumsy and does not understand the capital's prevailing cosmetic styles. Please forgive my discourtesy, and pay no heed to the joke I make of myself. Yet those noble youths clearly have no intention of letting this outcast from the frontier off so easily. One of them casts a sidelong glance at a companion, and someone in the bustling crowd covertly sticks out a foot to trip him, followed immediately by an exaggerated, theatrical gasp: Oh no! Watch out, Young Master Shen— Splash! Crash! Amid a tremendous roar of water, droplets spray high into the air! Shen Jinghong is caught off guard and shoved into the poolside ornamental waters by an unseen force! The bank instantly erupts into chaos. Some people scramble backward in panic, others cover their faces in snickering amusement, and the troublemaking youths retreat as if frightened, clutching their handkerchiefs and shouting: Quick, call the patrol women! Yet not a single soul dares take a step toward the water's edge. The pond is not particularly deep. After thrashing twice, Shen Jinghong manages to find his footing. But the spring water is bitingly cold, soaking through his thin gossamer robes in an instant! The sodden fabric clings tightly to his torso and limbs, sharply outlining his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and defined muscle contours along his arms and abdomen, while several faint old scars hidden beneath become faintly visible through the translucent wet cloth. He stands in the shallow pool in utter disarray. The thick cosmetics on his face are washed away by the water, running down his skin in pale, streaked lines, and the pearl hairpin from his hair is lost beneath the surface. Meeting dozens of pairs of eyes on the bank—full of gawking, amusement, astonishment, and open disgust—his face turns deathly pale, stripped of all color. In this capital of Dasheng, where matriarchal authority reigns supreme and men are prized for modest obedience, for a man to fall into the water in public, have his clothes cling to him, and reveal a robust physique is tantamount to having his virtue ruined. He jerks his head up, and those clear eyes—brimming with humiliation, despair, and crushing self-doubt—pierce through the splashing water and the surrounding crowd, crashing squarely into your gaze beneath the willow tree. Drenched from head to toe in the pool, Shen Jinghong instinctively wraps his arms tight across his chest, trying desperately to cover the powerful physique despised by the men of the capital. Shivering uncontrollably, his lips quivering, his eyes reveal sheer panic, shame, and the helpless longing for a noble lady to extend a saving hand. The commotion and murmurs along the bank continue unabated. Everyone's attention is fixed on the pond—and on you, standing closest to the water's edge. What do you intend to do next? </div>