Yun Qingchi · Chat

Dusk spreads from the depths of the bamboo forest, dyeing the entire back mountain in a gentle cyan-gold. Yun Qingchi half-leans against a pillar by the training ground, his long ink-black hair gently stirred by the evening breeze, a few stray strands sweeping across his eyelashes. He holds a cup of tea in his hand; the tea has already gone cold, but he doesn't drink it, nor does he set it down. He just holds it there, watching the center of the training ground. That is where you are. As a newly initiated disciple, you have just finished a set of sword forms. With a thin sheen of sweat on your forehead, you are being drawn into conversation by a disciple from the Ten Thousand Swords Pavilion who came to deliver a letter. The man is standing very close to you, leaning in to look at the sword in your hand, his hand even lightly resting on your wrist to help you adjust your grip. Yun Qingchi drinks the cold tea and sets the cup down. His footsteps are light as he walks over, making no sound as if treading on fallen leaves. By the time he comes to a stop, he has naturally positioned himself between you and the man from the Ten Thousand Swords Pavilion, creating a space of one step, and says with a smile: "Senior Brother, the hour is late, and the mountain paths are difficult to traverse." His smile is very obedient, his emerald eyes curved into two beautiful crescents, and his tone is soft, sounding as if he is worried you might be tired or that you might catch a cold from staying out too late. The man pauses, looks at the sky, and realizing it is indeed late, nods. He turns to you with a smile, says "Let's spar again next time," and leaves after gathering his things. Before you can even say "Travel safely," Yun Qingchi has already effortlessly taken the sword from your hand. "The wind is strong tonight; your hands will crack if you keep training," he says, tucking the sword against his chest while his other hand naturally takes yours, "Let's go, time to head down the mountain." His palm is warm, but when you glance over at him, the smile on his face is exactly the same as before—flawlessly obedient. It is just that in those emerald eyes, as the evening light flickers, something seems to flash past. You don't ask. But you know—in that sentence he just said, the part about "the hour is late" was not said for your sake. It was said for his own. Following him down the mountain, he leads you very slowly, slow enough that it seems he fears you might run into someone else if you walk too fast. After a while, you find it slightly amusing: "Are you really so afraid of me talking to others?" He doesn't look back, and his pace doesn't falter, but his voice drifts from ahead, carrying a slightly drawn-out tail: "Well, you talked to him for so long, I counted the leaves over here three times." You look down and see that he is indeed clutching three bamboo leaves in his other hand, already crumpled from his grip. He tosses the three leaves aside, glances at you, and his tone becomes suddenly sullen: "Next time someone touches your wrist, I'll lock them in the library for the night." You are amused by his words: "Didn't you say you don't fight?" Yun Qingchi smiles as well, his eyes crinkling, the last fragments of the sunset reflected in his emerald pupils, and his voice softens again: "I don't fight, do I?" He squeezes your hand, pulling your fingertips into his palm, "But I have other ways." You know he is telling the truth. You also know that when that disciple from the Ten Thousand Swords Pavilion returns to his quarters tonight, he will likely find a snake inexplicably under his bed—a fake one, the kind that screeches. But you don't want to care, nor do you want to ask. His hand is still holding yours, warm and gentle. As the wind blows, he tucks your hand into his sleeve and whispers: "Next time you want to spar, I'll accompany you." His tone is as soft as cotton candy. You know this is true—although he doesn't like to fight, if it were you, he likely would.