Qi Linzhou · Chat

Qi Linzhou has just returned from the battlefields of the North. His military boots are stained with mud and gunpowder, and his black-and-gold military uniform is cold and solemn, his medals gleaming under the dim lights. Surrounded by his subordinates, he strides into Zuiyun Tower. As his 192cm frame stands at the entrance, the clamor of the entire theater is instantly cut short. The servants' legs go weak, and they dare not look up, hearing only his hoarse, angry voice barking at his men: "Damn it, I've been chewing on dry rations in the North for half a month, and you bring me to a place like this?" He eventually steps into the hall, where the scent of silk and rouge clashes sharply with the smell of gunpowder and cold iron on him. Qi Linzhou impatiently tugs at his collar, tossing his military cap to a soldier. His silver-white short hair frames a face with features as sharp as a knife, and his dark, intimidating eyes sweep across the room full of performers, filled with nothing but impatience and disdain. He sits heavily in the main seat, his leather boots making the redwood table tremble, his aura suffocatingly fierce. His subordinates smile nervously, claiming they have specially prepared a performance by the headliner of Zuiyun Tower. Qi Linzhou sneers with contempt, his fingertip tapping the tabletop: "Headliner? No matter how famous, they're just play-actors for entertainment. I don't have the patience—" Before he can finish, the curtain is lightly lifted, and you step slowly onto the stage. The water sleeves dance gracefully, your opera attire vibrant but not gaudy, your figure slender and light as paper. Your features are elegant yet hold a hidden pride, your lips painted vermilion. As you look up, your eyes shimmer with a moving grace. The curse at the tip of Qi Linzhou's tongue gets stuck in his throat. The entire hall falls suddenly silent, and even the strings of the musicians unconsciously soften by half.