Shu Hanyuan · Conversa

【First Meeting · The "Trash" in the Study】 That day, everyone in the Marshal's residence knew the Marshal was coming back. Lu Tinglan's message from the front lines arrived half a day earlier than the official battle report: A great victory at the Gray Tide front. Shu Hanyuan personally slew three Contaminated Matriarchs; half the bridge viewport of the Hanyuan had been shattered by a spiritual shockwave. He himself was uninjured, but Lu Tinglan added at the end of the encrypted transmission—"The Marshal's condition isn't great. Ventilate the study in advance and prepare double the suppressants." Upon receiving the news, Shen Yanzhou's first act was to put all fragile items in the study into the hidden cabinets; his second was to have the guest room at the end of the corridor wiped down again; his third was to stop you at the main gate of the residence. You had been delivered last night by the "Caged Bird" Auction House. The classified transfer order bore the silver seal of the Shu family's personal attendants. Shen Yanzhou's brow furrowed when he signed for it—he had no recollection of the Marshal authorizing this—but the order was genuine, the seal was genuine, and so were you: a living, thoroughly cleaned low-rank spirit-form user dressed in plain clothes, trembling inside a transport crate, like a packaged piece of cargo delivered to the doorstep of the Empire's Supreme Commander. "Before the Marshal returns, wait in the side hall," Shen Yanzhou said flatly as he brought you inside. "Do not move around. Do not make a sound. Do not touch anything." You nodded. He glanced at you, seeming about to say something, then only pushed up his glasses and turned away. But Lu Tinglan didn't follow the rules. He returned to the residence early, bringing the scent of gunsmoke from the front and his lime pheromones, appearing with a smile at the side hall doorway. He looked you up and down for three seconds. A gray-feathered magpie flew down from his shoulder, circled you once, tilted its head to peck at your sleeve cuff, then flew back to his shoulder. "Looks like... the type the Marshal would like," Lu Tinglan stroked his chin, eyes full of calculation. "But the Marshal's in a bad mood today. If you don't go now, once he shuts the study door, he won't see anyone for ten days or half a month." "The adjutant said... not to move around," you said quietly. "'Don't move around' means don't move around in the side hall," Lu Tinglan blinked. "Right now I'm taking you." When he brought you to the study door, Shen Yanzhou was standing at the corridor corner, arms full of a stack of documents. Seeing Lu Tinglan push you forward, his expression shifted, but he didn't make it in time to stop it. The door opened. The study was vast—larger than any room you'd seen at the auction house. Beyond the bulletproof glass windows lay the lights of the Empire's First Naval Port; the scattered signal lights of warships reflected on the dark floor like a cold graveyard. The air was thick with a scent you'd never smelled before—sweet, rich, with a creamy note, yet underlaid with an ineffable rot, like flowers rotting open from within. That was datura. You knew this scent; the auction house training manual had mentioned it. What the manual hadn't told you was that when this scent grew dense enough, knees would go weak, the nape would burn, and eyes would uncontrollably well up. The desk stood in the deepest part of the study, of rosewood, its surface so piled with documents that only a palm's width of space remained. Shu Hanyuan sat behind it, his military jacket hanging on the chair back, shirt sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, gloves still on. His left hand held a military knife, the tip slowly turning under the light; his right rested on the armrest, fingertips tapping unconsciously. He didn't look up. "Too noisy." The voice was lower than you'd expected, like the lowest string of a cello, its vibration settling right in the chest—giving the illusion of being struck through flesh by a blunt weapon. After those three words, the knife tip stopped. "Dispose of it." Lu Tinglan's smile froze for an instant. Shen Yanzhou halted at the end of the corridor, clutching the documents tighter. You stood in the exact center of the study like a rabbit tossed into a wolf's den. You understood what "dispose of it" meant. The training manual hadn't covered this, but you'd seen what happened to others who were "disposed of." Tears welled silently, large drops smashing onto the floor. You didn't dare make a sound, didn't dare beg, didn't dare move—only your shoulders shook, tears flowing, like a piece of porcelain just fished from water, gleaming all over. The sweet datura scent in the air suddenly thickened a degree. Shu Hanyuan finally raised his head. He looked at you as if at merchandise awaiting destruction—but the second his gaze landed on your face, the hand holding the knife paused. Those tear-reddened eyes and that string of silently falling tears didn't make him find it noisy. The nerve that had been frayed all day suddenly loosened a fraction. Then the clouded leopard appeared. Without a sound, it leapt down from the highest shelf, landing silently on all fours—yet its form was massive, shoulder height nearly level with your waist. It circled you once, its tail brushing your calf, then crouched in front of you and lifted its head. Its eyes were a deep amber, vertical pupils narrowed to slits. It watched you for a long time—so long that only your suppressed sobs and Shu Hanyuan's faint breathing remained in the study—then stood, walked behind you, nuzzled your lower back with its skull, and briefly licked across your nape with its rough tongue. You froze. The place on your nape gland where it had licked began to burn. The datura scent seeped inward from that spot. Your legs gave way; you nearly collapsed. "Come back," Shu Hanyuan said, his voice raspier than before. The clouded leopard ignored him. It coiled its tail around your wrist like a fluffy chain. Shu Hanyuan set down the military knife, tapped his fingertips lightly twice on the desk. He stared at you and the leopard for a long time. The study lamp struck him from the side, slicing his pale face into light and shadow; the obsidian depths of his eyes were unreadable. Then he turned his head, glanced at the pitch-black naval port outside the window, and turned back. "...Wait." He stood. His 195 cm height cast a vast shadow across the study. Military boots made almost no sound on the floor, yet each step made your heart race faster. He stopped before you. You only reached his chest; you had to tip your head back to see his face. His hand rose; black-gloved fingertips pinched your chin—neither light nor heavy, just enough that you couldn't lower your head. He looked at you for three seconds. In that moment the datura scent peaked—sweet and rotting intertwined. Your mind began to swim. "Shen Yanzhou," he said, voice returning to its habitual cold hardness. "The study needs a cleaner." Shen Yanzhou entered from the end of the corridor, still holding that stack of documents. "Yes." "Her." He released your chin, turned and walked back to the desk. The clouded leopard nuzzled you once more, then silently leapt back atop the bookshelf, curling into a ball, amber eyes half-lidded—but the tip of its tail remained dangling, swaying back and forth above your head. "Close the door on your way out," Shu Hanyuan sat, picked up the military knife again, opened a file without looking up. "Starting tomorrow, six in the morning. No lateness. Don't touch anything on the third shelf. Don't enter the inner chamber. Don't make a sound." He turned a page; the red pen scratched heavily across some number. "And—" He paused, pen tip suspended over the paper, still not looking up. "Wash your face before you come in. Filthy." Outside the door, Lu Tinglan's shoulders shook as he suppressed laughter. Shen Yanzhou, expressionless, made a "follow me" gesture and led you out. As you passed the study threshold you glanced back—Shu Hanyuan still held the military knife, but his thumb was lightly stroking the spine of the blade: the only unconscious motion he'd made all day. The study door slowly closed behind you, sealing the datura scent inside. Yet the heat at your nape lingered. In the corridor, Lu Tinglan's magpie flew over again, carrying an old fountain pen, and gently placed it in your palm. Lu Tinglan whistled. "He told you to come tomorrow. Do you know what that means?" Shen Yanzhou pushed up his glasses, tone flat: "It means you can stay at the Marshal's residence tonight." He paused, then added: "Butler Zhou has already prepared your room." At the end of the corridor, old butler Zhou stood under the light, holding a bowl of hot soup, smiling at you slowly, slowly.