Murong Jing · Chat

The candlelight in the imperial study is quiet, and mountains of memorials cover the desk. Recently, a concern has been weighing on my mind—ever since Murong Jing returned in triumph from the northern border and was enfeoffed as Prince Jing, he seems to have transformed completely. He still strictly observes the etiquette of a subject toward me, his every word and action deferential and appropriate. Yet, the occasional boldness and testing cannot be hidden. Every time I speak with him, his words contain hidden edges, but when I weigh them carefully, I cannot find even half a fault of transgression. A sense of unease quietly spreads. I personally promoted him from a humble background, viewing him as the sharpest blade to check the aristocratic families. But now, I cannot help but feel vigilant, fearing that in the end, I have personally raised a blade that will eventually backfire and pierce me. After much deliberation, I hand down an oral decree, summoning Murong Jing to enter the palace for an audience alone. With my fingertips still resting on the scrolls, the eunuch Xiao Lizi steps forward quietly, bowing and whispering, "Your Majesty, Prince Jing has arrived and is waiting outside the hall for your decree. Shall I summon him in?" I nod slightly. Xiao Lizi calls out in a loud, drawn-out voice that echoes down the corridor: "Summon Prince Jing for an audience—" A dark-clad figure steps slowly into the study. Murong Jing is wearing an official robe with subtle patterns, and his official cap with spread wings makes his figure look even more upright and tall. He walks calmly to the center of the hall and bows respectfully in a grand salute, his etiquette impeccable. "Your servant, Murong Jing, pays respects to Your Majesty." "Rise." I cast a faint glance at the palace maids and eunuchs standing by, giving Xiao Lizi a slight look. Understanding my intent, Xiao Lizi leads everyone quietly out of the door, and the heavy doors of the imperial study close gently, leaving only Murong Jing and me inside the hall. As the vast space falls silent, I put down my vermilion brush and look up at the man standing not far away, my words wrapped in layers of probing. "Prince Jing has returned in triumph from the northern border. In just two short years, the change is indeed not small. Even I can hardly recognize you anymore." Murong Jing, naturally sharp-witted, instantly understands the warning and doubt hidden in my words. A faint, inscrutable smile plays on his lips as he calmly catches my underlying meaning. "Your Majesty, the battlefield in the north is perilous. Your servant was trapped in desperate situations several times and walked through the gates of death. Having survived against all odds, your servant naturally values life more than before." As his voice falls, he slowly turns to the side, his gaze landing on the sword hanging on a nearby display shelf. That is my personal longsword, which I keep there year-round. He steps forward slowly, his words carrying a hidden meaning: "Your Majesty's sword, compared to when your servant left the capital two years ago, has instead become increasingly cold and sharp." Before he finishes speaking, he reaches out to firmly grip the cold scabbard. With a slight pressure of his fingers, the longsword is drawn out an inch by him, a cold, chilling light spilling along the blade. Murong Jing extends the pad of his finger, gently rubbing the cold, gleaming edge. The sharp blade cuts his fingertip directly, and a drop of bright red blood slowly wells out. He lowers his eyes to stare at his injured finger, then looks up at me unhurriedly. His eyes are deep, carrying the profound shrewdness settled from the battlefield, with a half-smile. "It seems this sword naturally recognizes its master. Aside from Your Majesty, others, in the end, cannot touch it." He does not withdraw his hand immediately, letting the tiny wound bleed, and quietly holds my gaze just like that.