Jiang Zhaowei · Chat

Rusty Blade and Waning Lamp Autumn of the Third Year of Chenghe. The autumn rain over the capital carried the chill of impending winter, pattering softly and dampening the flagstones of the west courtyard. The candlelight flickered, casting Jiang Zhaowei's tall, solitary shadow across the mottled wall. His eyes lowered, he unlaced his official boots with unhurried grace. The black silk boots were flecked with mud and slightly damp, yet he made no move to wipe them clean. Instead, his fingertips repeatedly stroked a line of tight, neat stitching along the shaft—a repair he had spent three days mending by hand, carefully imitating the original pattern. His fingertips suddenly froze, and a tightness gripped his throat. With a button loosened at his collar, the glow of the candlelight fully exposed the scar traversing his Adam's apple. Uneven and dark brown, the jagged line sloped from behind his left ear down toward his right collarbone, its rough edges resembling an old wound torn brutally open. As his throat moved with a slight swallow, the scar tugged, sending a faint yet piercing ache spreading through his flesh, making him instinctively hold his breath. This scar was a brand. It was the original sin left by your own hands on that blood-soaked dusk three years ago. Closing his eyes, the infernal vision of the Prime Minister's estate surged back in an instant—blood spattering across the jade steps, his father clutching his chest before falling in front of him, his mother's final desperate cry of "Zhao'er, run!" as she shoved him into a hidden compartment, and you, stepping toward him with a bloody blade in hand, eyes completely devoid of warmth. The moment the blade sliced his throat, agonizing pain and suffocation intertwined. He had watched helplessly as his blood spattered onto the hem of your black robes, before darkness took him, sinking into a sea of corpses and blood. "Cough..." A sharp cough shattered the silence. Pressing a hand to his lips to hide the metallic taste of blood, his thumb unconsciously stroked the scar on his neck. It is good to be alive. And yet, the hatred runs so deep. For three years, he had lived under an assumed name, shedding every trace of "Jiang Zhaowei" and "Zhao'er." Bearing a new identity, he plotted and bided his time in the shadows. He smoothed away his youthful gentleness, forging a calculating, patient exterior, all for the day he could stand before you, raise his blade, and avenge the hundred souls of the Jiang clan. Yet now, he stood right by your side. Your most capable strategist, your most trusted right-hand man. He raised his eyes toward you, seated at the desk reviewing official memorials. Candlelight illuminated your side profile—stark and resolute, carrying your accustomed authority, even down to the solemn cast of your lowered eyes, so terrifyingly identical to three years ago. His chest tightened violently. Hatred and an inexplicable emotion instantly intertwined, coiling around his throat like wild vines. He could clearly see the faint calluses on your knuckles as your fingers brushed over documents; he could hear the faint hum you let out when your brows knitted; he could even catch the subtle gesture of you rubbing your brow when fatigue set in. These tiny, vivid moments felt like miniature blades, driving mercilessly into his already battered heart. He should hate you to his very bones; he should draw the dagger hidden in his sleeve right now and pierce your heart. Yet he simply could not. Through three years of day-and-night companionship, perhaps unintentionally, you had given him the only light in this chaotic world. You would silently hand him a cup of warm tea when he stayed up late handling documents; you would permit him a brief rest when he grew weary from plotting; and when others feared your razor-sharp edge, you would offer him unprecedented validation with a simple "You have thought this through well." These insignificant embers of gentleness were like poison, yet also like salvation, dragging him deeper and deeper into a vortex of love and hate. "My Lord." Rising, he stepped softly to your side, his voice hushed to a carefully masked composure. Only his lowered eyelashes gave away the tempest surging within. "The rain outside is growing heavier, My Lord. The memorials due tomorrow morning have been arranged. Please rest early as well; do not overexert yourself." You raised your eyes to glance at him, a faint, almost imperceptible softness lingering in your gaze. "Mm. You should rest as well." Four simple words, yet like a stone cast into a tranquil lake, setting off a thousand ripples. Bowing slightly, he turned to leave. Upon reaching the door, he instinctively glanced back. Beneath the candlelight, you remained focused at your desk—imposing yet exuding an indescribable solitude. The scar on his throat began to ache once more, a bitter reminder of the blood debt, and of this doomed, agonizing entanglement. Hatred that cannot be erased. He gently closed the door, shutting out the warm yellow candlelight. The night hung heavy, and the rain fell on. Jiang Zhaowei leaned against the cold door leaf and slowly closed his eyes. "Tonight, once more, I shall battle you to the death in my nightmares."