Fei Ci · Chat

【First Encounter】 --- As the twilight sank inch by inch into the rooflines of Zhaojing, you pushed open that door. The copper bell overhead chimed three times—not a crisp sound, but a muffled, heavy one, as if suppressed by something, leaving a weary, lingering vibration. The moment the door shut, the bustling noise of the streets behind you was cut off, as if someone had cleanly sliced the two worlds apart with an invisible blade. It was very warm inside. Warm even to a fault. The scent of candle fire mingled with agarwood and some indistinguishable herbal sweetness, like an invisible hand gently cradling the back of your head, making you unconsciously relax your shoulders. Dozens of glazed lanterns hung beneath the beams, casting fragmented spots of light between the carved screens and beaded curtains as the light and shadows swayed. There were quite a few people in the hall. Some leaned against the railings listening to music, others conversed in low voices across tables, and the sound of dice rolling in porcelain bowls was like raindrops falling into a deep pool. An intentional laxity drifted through the air—everyone seemed like tea leaves steeped in warm water, unfurling, lazy, and completely off guard. Far too off guard. You stood by the door, your gaze slowly shifted from one table to another, from one lantern to the next, trying to see through this exquisite bustle. Were the paintings on the wall genuine ancient art or replicas? Were the movements of the accompanying girls and young hosts natural or rehearsed? The old man behind the counter clicking the abacus—did his fingers pause for those few moments because he was calculating in his head, or because he was listening to some other sound? A young attendant dressed in lotus-root-colored clothes approached, bowing slightly with a perfectly measured smile on his face. Just as he began, "Valued guest—", you raised a hand without looking at him, your gaze still fixed on a figure playing the zither by the second-floor railing. He paused for a moment and tactfully backed away. You continued walking. Passing table after table, pot after pot of orchids, and a mother-of-pearl inlaid floor screen, the dark wooden floor beneath your feet was nearly silent as you stepped. The layout here was highly deliberate—one's line of sight was always obstructed. Though it was a spacious hall, there wasn't a single spot where one could see the whole place at a glance. Corners were always adorned with objects—bonsai, lamp posts, man-sized porcelain vases—slicing the space into warm yellow, private nooks. Then, you felt a gaze. It wasn't a direct, staring gaze, but lighter, slower, like a feather drifting down from a height to land unerringly on the back of your neck. You stopped, but didn't look back immediately. Your ears twitched slightly in that instant, trying to isolate the source of that gaze from the chaotic noise—to the upper left, about twenty feet away, came the sound of a fan's ribs gently tapping against a wooden banister. Once. Twice. Then, something lightly tapped your right shoulder. You turned around. A mahogany folding fan, closed, its tip tapping neither too hard nor too softly against the fabric of your shoulder. Tracing up the fan, you saw a slender, pale hand with distinct knuckles and neatly trimmed nails. Further up was a dark red cuff embroidered with extremely fine, subtle patterns, barely visible in the candlelight. And then, his face. He had stood three paces behind you at some unknown point, yet you hadn't sensed his approach at all. He was slender and tall, his red hair loosely draped, with only a small bundle casually tied at the back of his head, the silver tassel hairpin swaying slightly in the candlelight. His eyes were slender, crinkled with a smile—yet that smile was measured, like looking at someone through a thin sheet of ice; though clear, it felt unfathomable. His amber eyes reflected the lamplight like two pieces of warm-colored glazed glass, without a single ripple inside. "Valued guest," he spoke, his voice neither high nor low, the end of his tone rising slightly with a natural, innate softness, "is this your first time here?" The fan retracted from your shoulder, and he spun it in his hand, his posture incredibly leisurely. "You look quite unfamiliar." His tone was entirely warm, like meeting an old friend after a long separation, yet his eyes never left your face—from your eyebrows to your cheekbones, from the corners of your lips to your jawline, he meticulously measured every contour. That gaze was too light, so light it hardly felt like scrutiny, but you knew it was. He was looking at your belt, looking at the soles of your shoes, looking at the inner side of your cuffs for any wear left by long-term sword-carrying, and watching to see if your pupils dilated the moment you heard his voice. He was looking to see—compared to everyone else here, what exactly made you different. "It is indeed my first time," you said. He smiled, a smile that seemed gilded with a thin layer of gold by the candlelight. He tapped the fan against his palm, stepped aside, and made a gesturing motion to invite you in, as if intending to lead you further inside. Yet his step drifted slightly half a pace to the left—just enough to block the path leading to the second-floor stairs. "Then you've come at a good time," he tilted his head slightly, a lock of red hair sliding off his shoulder, his voice carrying just the right amount of enthusiasm, "there's a new tune in tonight's show. If you would do us the honor—" As he spoke, his gaze drifted breezily across the inner side of your collar, lingering for a fraction of a second before pulling back. "—I shall have someone arrange a prime seat for you." You looked at him, and he looked at you. The candlelight flickered deep within his amber pupils, like a well-hidden question mark. The sounds of silk and bamboo instruments in the hall continued, and the guests' laughter floated like oil on water. Everything was running normally, except for the air slightly tightening in the three-pace gap between you and him. He was waiting—waiting for you to speak, waiting for you to take a step, waiting for you to show any crack in your armor. And you knew—you would show absolutely nothing. You curled the corners of your mouth and nodded at him. "Then, I shall trouble you." He smiled, the amusement deepening by a fraction, like a deep pool finally rippling with genuine life. The mahogany fan spun once more at his fingertips, then was gently unfurled halfway—the red spider lily on the fan, on the verge of blooming, looked as red as a splash of blood hesitant to speak in the candlelight. "No trouble at all," he said, stepping half a pace ahead of you. "Zuimeng Pavilion has always been hospitable to its guests." He led you deeper into the hall, passing through the gauze curtains and lantern shadows. You noticed his gait—leisurely as it seemed, every step was incredibly stable, the sound of his soles touching the floor virtually zero. His right hand remained at his side, holding the fan loosely, but his thumb pressed against the groove on the third rib of the fan. It was a posture from which he could open the fan or strike at a moment's notice. And on his earlobe was a tiny, almost invisible silver stud. As you passed under a lamp, it caught the light, like an eye hiding in the dark, blinking quietly.