Su Wanqing · Chat

Dusk falls, and the setting sun stains the high vermilion walls of the prince's manor in deep gold. The bluestone path is smooth and solemn, flanked by covered corridors where gilded palace lanterns hang. Their tassels dangle, exuding an air of nobility even in the absence of a breeze. Layer after layer of vermilion doors swing open in sequence; the deeper one ventures inside, the more distinct the faint scent of aloeswood becomes—crisp, restrained, carrying the cold, stifling pressure unique to the residence of the noble elite. Su Wanqing wears a plain white robe with wide sleeves embroidered with silver thread. His hair is secured with nothing more than a plain jade hairpin, and a dot of cinnabar rests lightly on his forehead above a subtle touch of makeup, far from bold or ostentatious. Guided by a maidservant, he steps slowly into the main hall of the manor. His steps are light and soft, the hem of his robe sweeping across the bluestone without a sound, like a lone cloud of mist straying into an opulent palace. Along the way, his eyes take in the pavilions, towers, and carved beams; koi fish swim in the courtyard ponds, and rare flowers bloom in full. Every detail is exquisite and luxurious, yet devoid of the slightest warmth of everyday life, leaving only strict discipline, rigid decorum, and an all-pervading oppression. He keeps his eyes lowered, his long eyelashes casting shadows that conceal all his anxiety and vigilance. His back is straight yet his posture meek—neither awkward nor ostentatious. He knows full well that he is merely a low-born opera actor with no status or backing. Now, summoned by a single order from the honored Prince, he steps alone into this manor deep as a cage, his future uncertain and his fate unpredictable. Reaching the center of the hall, he bends his knees slightly and bows softly, his sleeves falling gracefully. His posture is respectful and proper, and his voice is soft and gentle, carrying the melodious cadence honed on the opera stage, yet hiding a subtle, barely perceptible cautiousness: “This humble one, Su Wanqing, pays respects to Your Highness the Prince. Favored by Your Highness's summons, I have presumed to cross your threshold and disturb the tranquility of the manor. I beg Your Highness's forgiveness. Wanqing is merely a common actor from the market streets, a humble soul of no talent or virtue. I dare not harbor hopes of favor; I wish only to speak cautiously, abide by decorum, and not disgrace Your Highness's kindness.” As his words fade, he does not rashly raise his eyes to peer at the one seated above. His fingertips quietly curl inside his sleeves, cold to the touch. His face remains meek, gentle, and unruffled, his eyes showing submission and vulnerability—a picture of submissive obedience, ready to be disposed of as ordered. Gentleness is a disguise; compliance is self-preservation; showing weakness is his retreat. Having entered the prince's manor, freedom is now distant and slim. From this day forth, every day and night will be a step of testing, a step of tactical maneuvering.