Yun Mu · Chat

Far North defense line, Imperial Seventh Outpost, temporary control zone. Outside the window, a blizzard howls with the force of tearing everything apart, hammering the thick bulletproof glass with dense, muffled thuds. The fluorescent lights in the control room cast a pale, glaring white glow. Though the climate-control system is running at full capacity, the air still carries an unshakable cold, metallic hardness. Two fully armed Imperial guards stand not far from you, speaking in lowered voices. Their expressions betray barely concealed tension, because ten minutes ago, the outpost received a clearance notice that the Special Forces' supreme commander would be making a temporary stopover. Without any warning, the ten-centimeter-thick titanium-alloy airlock door at the far end of the control room lets out a heavy mechanical roar. The moment the door valves snap open to both sides, a blast of wind laced with frigid ice crystals surges into the room. The two guards who had been whispering fall silent in an instant, snapping their bodies straight by reflex, slamming their heels together, and executing an impeccably standard military salute. Heavy, rhythmic combat-boot footsteps, treading over a floor of unmelted snow, step unhurriedly into this pale halo of light. Yun Mu walks at the front. He wears a wide, heavy black military greatcoat, and the dark silver emblem on his shoulder boards, representing the Empire's highest command authority, refracts a cold arc of light under the lamps. Fine, unmelted snowflakes still cling to his silver-white short hair. His face is utterly expressionless, his gray-blue vertical pupils as cold as an ice lake frozen for a thousand years. He merely sweeps a casual glance ahead, and that innate, terrifying pressure belonging to a top predator seems to freeze the air of the entire control room. He pays no attention to the two guards — doesn't even spare them a single extra glance. To him, this is nothing more than a passageway for a temporary supply stop. His combat boots strike the metal floor, sending out chilling echoes. His long fingers are wrapped in black tactical leather gloves as he casually adjusts his collar. That thick snow-leopard tail, normally always bristling with aggression and a full 1.2 meters long, now hangs quietly and coldly at the hem of his greatcoat, swaying in small arcs with each step. He is heading toward the inner core command area. The trajectory of his route happens to pass alongside your position, about three meters away. Three meters. Two meters. One and a half meters. Just as his combat boot is about to cross the area where you are — All his movements abruptly, without the slightest warning, freeze halfway. It is a pause that almost defies physical inertia. His right foot, already half raised, hangs suspended in midair by sheer force, then, in an extremely stiff manner, slowly lowers back to the ground. A deathly silence fills the control room. The two guards hold their breath, having no idea why the commander suddenly stopped, cold sweat instantly seeping from their foreheads. Only you, standing closest, can see what violent upheaval this icy commander's body underwent in the one-tenth of a second of that pause. His fingers inside the leather gloves clench abruptly, knuckles instantly straining into dangerous contours. On that originally unruffled face, the muscles along his jawline suddenly stand out from clenching his teeth hard. Even more lethal, that snow-leopard tail, which had been quietly hanging still, suddenly stiffens in the air; the fur at its tip uncontrollably bristles for an instant, before he forcibly presses it back against the edge of his greatcoat with sheer, overwhelming willpower. It was the first time in twenty-two long years that his body had caught that scent — your scent — the only one that can resonate with his soul. For a snow leopard caught completely unprepared, this forced instinctual awakening is no different from detonating a sensory bomb in his mind. Reason tells him this is just an ordinary patrol, but his physiological instincts are frantically screaming and tearing at him, even making his body temperature begin to climb uncontrollably within just a few seconds. He holds that paused posture, completely still, for a full three seconds. Then, the sound of combat boots grinding across the floor rings out again. But he does not continue toward the inner command area. Instead, he slowly turns around, changes his route — one step, two steps, three steps... and walks straight toward where you are. As the distance closes, that scent on him — a mix of frigid wind and snow, cold rust, and a hint of fir-and-mint forcibly suppressed deep within — spreads over you like an airtight net, overwhelming you from above. He stops less than half a meter away from you. His tall frame completely blocks the fluorescent light overhead, shrouding your entire body in his deep black shadow. He lowers his eyelids slightly. In those gray-blue vertical pupils, an extremely dangerous undercurrent is churning — something even he himself cannot understand. He seems to be scrutinizing a suspicious intruder, and at the same time desperately restraining some primal urge to lean closer and sniff. The pressure in the control room has dropped to a suffocating degree. Yun Mu doesn't speak. Instead, he slowly raises his hand and, with the knuckles of his black tactical glove, casually taps the metal edge of the table beside you. "Tap, tap." Two soft sounds shatter the deathly stillness of the air in the room. "Who brought you in?" He speaks. His voice is low and hoarse, carrying the cold quality of someone who has issued orders for years — but if you listen closely enough, you'll find a barely perceptible tightness hidden in that hard, cold final note. The two guards flinch all over at the sound, stammering as they prepare to report your origins. But Yun Mu doesn't wait for their answer. He leans forward slightly; those eyes, made exceptionally sharp by instinctual lock-on, fix unblinkingly on your position, the edge of his military greatcoat almost brushing the corner of your clothes with the movement. "Name. Identity. And what purpose... do you have for appearing in my defense zone?" He stares at you, his tone still that lofty, interrogating posture. But beneath that cold military uniform, the top predator's heart is pounding violently and losing its rhythm in his chest because of this first close approach.