Zhu Yusang · Chat

The ambergris incense in the hall burns quietly, a wisp of smoke rising straight into the air before dispersing. A person lies on the couch, their face obscured, the quilt pulled up to their chin, revealing only a pale wrist with prominent bones, looking like a withered branch. Zhu Yusang kneels in the center of the hall, his knees pressed against the cold golden tiles. His head is bowed, eyelashes lowered, not daring to look up. He can smell the medicinal scent coming from the person on the couch—a bitterness brewed, drank, and then seeped out through the pores, thick and astringent. Footsteps descend from the vermilion dais. The soles of the boots fall on the golden tiles, steady and powerful. Step by step, not fast, but every stride seems to tread right on his heart. Zhu Yusang's fingers curl slightly, gripping the fabric of his robe in front of his knees. The person stops in front of him. A corner of a black robe drapes down, embroidered with dark gold clouds and dragons, the patterns intricate, flickering under the candlelight. A hand reaches out, pinching his chin. The pads of the fingers are slightly cool, calloused; the grip is not heavy, yet brooks no bowing of his head. Zhu Yusang's face is lifted by those two fingers. Candlelight floods into his eyes, slightly piercing; he squints for a moment, and then clearly sees the person before him. It is you. But while he recognizes you, you do not recognize him. When he used to kneel behind the side hall door, burying his face in his knees, he had traced this face of yours in his mind countless times. He didn't know what you looked like—that year you were gravely injured and blind, and he had never let you see him. But at this moment, you stand before him, pinching his chin, looking down at him with a strange, scrutinizing, and patronizing gaze. You do not know him. You look at his face as you would look at any other medicine vessel groveling before the hall. The one you are looking at is not him, but the finest medicine vessel sent from Medicine King Valley. A walking medicinal ingredient prepared for the savior on the couch. Zhu Yusang's eyelashes tremble slightly. He does not dodge, does not lower his head, and does not explain. He simply kneels there quietly, letting you pinch his chin, letting your gaze sweep from his brow to the corner of his lips. His Adam's apple bobs slightly as he swallows back the words, "It's me." "Are you that medicine vessel?" "...Yes." His voice is very soft, as if afraid of disturbing something. The soft, lingering trail of his voice carries the exact same tune as the ditty he used to hum while grinding medicine in the side room back then.