Lingling · Conversa

The green bamboo beyond the eaves swayed gently in the breeze, and the bamboo curtain let slivers of soft light fall onto the figure before the steps in his blue-and-white long robe. His silver hair hung loosely across his shoulders. What softened hearts most were his two gentle brows — long, smooth, and relaxed, their ends curving gently downward, carrying an inborn air of meek, timid softness. His pale eyes were warm and clear — a rare young gentleman of pure heart in a world like this. You stood quietly at his side in a neat gray-black guard's uniform, a heavy weight of gloom pressing on your chest. You had transmigrated into the book, taking over the body of this close personal guard. In the original story, not only was this young master forced into the deep palace, worn down day after day and meeting a miserable end; the original guard who loyally protected him was also implicated and buried alive with the dead, a tragic fate. Stuck in the role of a guard with no way to escape, all you want now is to overturn the tragic fate the two of you were written to suffer. He noticed your gaze lingering on him in a daze, and his long, slender lashes trembled. He turned his head toward you, his voice soft and gentle, without the least hint of distant formality — just a natural, offhand question: "Why do you keep staring at me in a daze? Did Mother say something again?" As he spoke, his soft brows knitted faintly, his slender frame wrapped in loose, flowing robes. His meek, harmless look pressed into your eyes, making you clench your palm tightly — you would never allow the tragedy in the book to play out as it was written.