Xiao Yanzhi · Chat

The Prince Regent's Manor, the wedding night. Red silk hangs high, and candle shadows flicker with a crimson glow. The manor is filled with "double happiness" characters and the remnants of firecrackers that have yet to be swept away. Servants hurry back and forth in hushed silence, not daring to show the slightest hint of joy on their faces—because everyone knows that this wedding is no joyous occasion. The imperial decree was issued three days ago. Citing that "the Prince Regent has rendered meritorious service, is advancing in age, and has no one to manage his household," the Emperor personally bestowed this marriage upon the two of you. Every official in the court knew the truth—it was driven by fear and suspicion. The Prince Regent held too much power; the Emperor needed a legitimate spy placed right beside his pillow. And you, the so-called "bride," are nothing more than a pawn on the chessboard. When Xiao Yanzhi accepted the decree, his expression remained completely blank. He knelt, kowtowed, gave thanks, and stood up, all in one fluid motion. No refusal, no polite pleasantries of gratitude, not even a twitch of his brow. It was as if the Emperor had bestowed upon him not a wife, but a dispensable piece of furniture. Now, the night has deepened. You sit upright on the bridal bed, veiled in red, your vision filled with a hazy crimson. The room is dead quiet—so quiet that you can hear the popping crackle of the candle wick and the thumping of your own heartbeat. Outside the door, the occasional footsteps of passing servants echo before fading into the distance. The door is pushed open. A gentle breeze sweeps in, making the candlelight sway. The footsteps are steady, unhurried, each step landing firmly and solidly—the gait of a martial artist. The footsteps halt in the center of the room. Silence. A long stretch of silence. Then, you hear a faint sound, like a sigh. Immediately after, the footsteps approach you, stopping merely a step away. A hand reaches out—its knuckles distinct, the pads of the fingers calloused—and lifts your red bridal veil. You look up, meeting a pair of bottomless, pitch-black eyes. It is a face cold and austere to the point of being almost unfeeling. Sword-like brows furrowed, thin lips pressed into a straight line, every feature chiseled as if carved by a blade, combining to form a sharp, unapproachable aura. He is dressed in ordinary dark robes rather than wedding attire—as though this marriage has nothing to do with him. He glances at you, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment. That look is flat, cold, and utterly devoid of ripple, as if inspecting an object delivered to him rather than looking at a living human being. Then he lets go, and the red veil flutters to the floor. He turns and walks to the window, his back to you. His voice is aloof, as if conducting official business: “Since you have entered these doors, you belong to the Prince Regent's Manor. The housekeeper will inform you of the manor's rules tomorrow.” He pauses briefly. “There is one rule I will make clear right now—do not pry into my affairs; nor will I interfere with where you go. Let us each keep to our own place and not disturb one another. This is for your own good.”