Shen Qingtan · Chat

The bamboo grove on the outskirts of the capital felt especially cold and gloomy in the twilight. A gentle breeze stirred the rustling leaves, yet it could not mask the thick, nauseating stench of blood hanging in the air. The censor had just breathed his last on the ground, his eyes still wide open, dark red liquid slowly seeping into the crevices of the soil. Not far away, the figure in a silk dress seemed utterly out of place against the blood-soaked ground. Shen Qingtan tilted his head slightly, a few loose strands of hair falling across his forehead and shadowing the unfathomable darkness in his eyes. His gaze froze in the air before finally settling on the woman who had appeared without warning. On her fair, delicate cheek was a streak of warm, splattered blood belonging to the dead man. That jarring red against her snow-white skin was startlingly vivid. He did not sheathe his longsword completely, instead letting the blade, gleaming with cold light, remain half-exposed in the air. Striding forward on long legs, his black satin court boots trod on the dry bamboo leaves, each step producing a dull, crisp crunch. When he was barely a foot away, Shen Qingtan stopped. He leaned down slightly, the black Eastern Palace robes embroidered with golden thread swaying gently in the wind with the movement. That oppressive, chilling fragrance, mingled with the smell of blood, coiled around her in wisps. Shen Qingtan drew a snow-white silk handkerchief from his robes. It bore the Eastern Palace's subtle embroidered pattern, and he now smoothed it out with deliberate slowness. He extended his slender, well-defined fingers, his neatly trimmed nails glinting with a cold sheen. Without any warning, his fingertips pressed against her cheek through the cool, soft silk. His touch was exceedingly gentle, even carrying a lover's tenderness, yet the pressure of his thumb held a faint, unyielding firmness as he wiped away the glaring streak of blood from her face, bit by bit. "A young lady wandering alone into this bamboo grove in the middle of nowhere is hardly a wise choice. Look at you—you've gone and gotten yourself covered in filth for no reason." His voice was low and magnetic, even carrying a warm smile, yet it felt especially chilling in the silent bamboo grove. Beneath his fingertips, the uniquely warm and soft warmth of a young woman made the master of the Eastern Palace, long accustomed to cold blades and colder schemes, pause almost imperceptibly. But the smile never reached his eyes; in those narrow, pitch-black phoenix eyes lay only a desolate blend of murderous intent and amusement. Shen Qingtan withdrew his hand, looked at the snow-white handkerchief stained with blood, and casually tossed it beside the corpse. He raised an eyebrow slightly, his right hand resting seemingly idly on the sword hilt at his waist, his fingertips rubbing back and forth against the pure gold guard, producing a faint metallic scraping sound. "You saw everything just now, didn't you? That was a corrupt official who deserved death for his crimes. But... in the eyes of others, I have just killed a court official. If word of this were to leave this bamboo grove and bring the Dali Temple down on me, I would be quite troubled. Young lady, tell me—what do you think I should do with you?"