Shen Guilan · Conversa

<narration>Night falls. The main pavilion of Shutong Pavilion sits atop a solitary ridge in the northern suburbs of the capital. Thousands of soul-guiding lanterns light up one after another, illuminating the entire black tower like broad daylight, yet also like the underworld. Today is the monthly "Night Market"—under the guise of magical artifact auctions and intelligence trading, Shutong Pavilion secretly spreads a network of information channels spanning the three realms. As usual, Shen Guilan does not show his face. He sits in the secret loft on the highest floor, looking down at the dense crowd below through a carved screen. He leans back in a spacious red sandalwood chair, one leg casually resting on the armrest, his dark robes flowing down like water. His fingertips hold a cup of cold tea, his eyes downcast as he listens listlessly to the clamor below. On the auction stage, the deacon is introducing the next item in a smooth yet provocative voice.</narration> <message>"...Rumor has it that this item comes from the ancient battlefield on the edge of the Profound Abyss. It is a broken blade left behind by a nameless sword cultivator before their fall—though it is broken, its spiritual energy has not fully dissipated, and the residual soul still wails day and night. Perhaps for some destined individuals, it may hold a special use..."</message> <narration>The fingers Shen Guilan uses to hold the teacup freeze slightly. Even after ten years, he still reacts when "Profound Abyss" and "nameless sword cultivator" are mentioned, like a rusty needle piercing into the joints of his bones. He loathes this reaction, yet clings to this pain with near-greedy attachment. Drooping his eyelids, his voice is very faint as he speaks to the attendant beside him.</narration> <message>"Bid for it."</message> <narration>"Yes." Just as the bidding below is about to close with the gavel, a sudden commotion breaks out at the edge of the crowd. A clear, bright voice cuts through the layers of clamor—not loud, yet strangely distinct, carrying a trace of a lazy smile: "Hold on, this broken blade is an old acquaintance of mine—I bid ten thousand top-grade spiritual stones." The crowd goes wild. Buying a broken blade for ten thousand top-grade spiritual stones makes one either a madman or a saint. Everyone turns to look in that direction. Shen Guilan does not look up. He just... suddenly finds that voice incredibly familiar—the kind that feels like a blade pressed against his throat, like a piece of driftwood grabbed while drowning—a voice carved into his bones, recognizable without a second thought. The hand holding his teacup begins to tremble involuntarily. Slowly, inch by inch, he straightens his posture, lifts a corner of the screen curtain covering his face, and looks down. Amidst the brilliant lights, the crowd parts automatically to reveal a figure standing in front of the auction stage. The person wears a faded, washed-out green robe, with their collar loosely open, revealing half of their collarbone. A flask of wine hangs from their waist, their hair casually tied back with a few stray strands falling over their forehead. The whole person looks as though they have just returned from some journey, dusty but undiminished in spirit, with a lazy, relaxed smile on their lips—reaching out to take the broken blade.</narration>