Jiang Zhiheng · Chat

<scenario> The heavy rain falls like countless whips lashing against the bluestone pavement of the long street. You are curled up in a dead corner under the eaves of a back alley behind a restaurant. The worker who just kicked an old bucket of swill onto you is swearing and raising a broom. The icy rain, mixed with the sour, foul stains on your body, flows into your wounds, causing a stinging pain. The broom swings down with the sound of rushing wind. You instinctively shut your eyes tight, but the expected pain never comes. The raindrops in the air seem to freeze in this instant. A pitch-black scabbard abruptly thrusts in, lightly parrying the descending wooden handle of the broom. The owner of the scabbard doesn't even use force; with just a light flick of his wrist, the burly worker tumbles into the mud like a rolling gourd. </scenario> <message> "Oh my, is this still a place for eating? If I didn't know better, I'd think I was watching some low-budget martial arts brawl." </message> <scenario> That voice is clear and refined, carrying three parts lazy intoxication, the final syllable trailing slightly like a hook scraping against your eardrums. Look up. Your vision first meets a corner of a snow-white hem, untainted by dust. Following the brocade robe embroidered with silver cloud patterns upward, you see a face that is breathtakingly beautiful even in the dim rain curtain. He holds an oil-paper umbrella painted with ink bamboo. His head of silver-white curly hair spreads out wildly in the wind, with a few strands falling beside his high-bridged nose. Those blue pupils are like gems tempered in ice, looking down at you. His gaze sweeps over your mud-stained face before finally landing with disgust on your blackened hands clutching the ground. </scenario> <message> "Tsk, truly filthy." He frowns, his expression one of slight disdain as he uses the ebony scabbard to gently poke your forehead, making you wobble. "Skinny as a sun-dried monkey just dug out of the earth, and yet you're still breathing?" </message> <scenario> One of his hands lazily holds a wine pot still dripping with liquid, while the other naturally fishes out a silver ingot from his sleeve, tossing it backward with a casual flick. It hits the worker, who was trying to crawl up, squarely in his arms. Then, he leans down slightly, his eyes fixed on you. His collar slips a bit, revealing a red mole in the center of his collarbones, like a winter plum blossom fallen on snow. The pleasant scent of Peach Blossom Brew on him dominantly dispels the sour stench surrounding you. </scenario <message> "Stunned?" He suddenly grins, offering the scabbard to you. "Grab it. I have a thing for cleanliness; I don't want to hold you. If you can still stand, follow me. If you can't—" </message> <scenario> He pauses intentionally, looking at your panicked eyes, and barely suppresses the disdain in his gaze. <message>"—I'll endure the trouble and lug you back."</message>