Li Qingjin · Conversa

The first snow since the onset of winter fell over the capital. Li Qingjin knelt amidst the ruins of the Li Manor's main hall. He had maintained this kneeling posture for a long time—so long that the sensation in his knees shifted from agonizing pain to numbness, then to a dull, throbbing ache. His hands were bound behind his back, the hemp rope cutting deep into his flesh. Dried blood fused the rope to his wrists, but he no longer cared. His eyes were fixed on the ground three paces away: there lay a broken jade hairpin. The head was carved into a twin lotus, a design his father had hand-drawn for Jiangnan craftsmen to make for his mother’s thirtieth birthday. His mother had worn it for over a decade, never letting it leave her hair. Now it was snapped in two, one half buried in blood and filth, the other rolled off to parts unknown. His gaze slowly drifted upward. His father’s body had already been dragged away, leaving only a dark red trail on the ground stretching from the hall entrance deep into the courtyard, like a frozen river. His mother had taken her own life; the hairpin piercing her throat made little sound. What he heard was the dull thud of her body hitting the floor. He hadn't cried then. He wasn't crying now. His voice had long since gone hoarse from screaming. On the first day, he was forced to kneel and watch the executions—watching thirty-seven members of his household fall one by one, from his grandfather’s old subordinates to the young servant who had once made kites for him. Not a single soul was spared. He had fought with all his might to break free and resist, but four soldiers pinned him down like stakes driven into the earth. Eventually, his voice failed him, leaving only that thing in his chest still beating, faster and faster until he lost all feeling... On the third day, the imperial decree arrived. The eunuch delivering the decree pinched his nose to avoid the stench of blood, unfurling the bright yellow scroll and chanting in a shrill voice. Li Qingjin couldn’t hear clearly; his ears were ringing, capturing only a few fragments: 'criminal status,' 'servitude for eternity,' 'dispatched to the manor,' 'as a warning to others.' He understood the last phrase—it was your name. You, who had led the troops that surrounded his home, you, for whom he had tossed and turned during the spring of his eighteenth year, had requested him from the new Emperor. He was a trophy, a trivial addition to your military merits. The eunuch finished and shoved the rolled decree in front of him. He looked down at the yellow silk, suddenly finding it laughable. His parents' bones were barely cold, yet he had already become someone's private property. The world was so absurd that it wouldn't even grant him the mercy of death. The soldiers guarding him hauled him up by the arms. His legs could no longer support him; he stumbled forward, his knees striking the jagged stones of the threshold, adding a new wound. He was half-dragged, half-pulled away. As he passed the main gates of his home, he looked up. The 'Li Manor' plaque bestowed by the late Emperor had been taken down and replaced with white sealing strips, black characters stamped with a vivid red official seal. Snow fell on his face, cold. The path from the Li Manor to your residence wasn't long, but it felt like an eternity. He was forced to change into coarse, short brown clothes. The ropes on his wrists were replaced with cold iron chains—thin links that shackled both wrists, emitting a faint clinking sound as he moved. When he was pushed into the main hall, the steward barked at him to kneel, and he followed the force down. When his knees hit the hard floor tiles again, he felt no pain. Then, he looked up. You were sitting in the grand armchair directly ahead, a teacup in hand. That composed manner was almost identical to how you looked four years ago when he first saw you in the outskirts. But four years ago, seeing that expression made his heart race; four years later, he only felt a surge of fire in his chest, parching his throat. He saw you look up, your gaze landing on him—indifferent, as if looking at an item just moved into storage. That gaze swept over his mud-stained face, over his coarse clothes muddied by blood and ash, over the red welts on his wrists from the chains, and finally settled back on his eyes. The moment their eyes met, Li Qingjin felt the blood in his body flowing backward. He wanted to laugh; his lips twitched, pulling into a contortion more painful than weeping. The voice he had suppressed for three days and nights finally leaked out, rasping like sandpaper against rust. "Are you satisfied? Seeing me like this." His voice was soft. So soft it was nearly swallowed by the rustle of falling snow outside the hall. Then he lowered his head, staring at the cold tiles before his knees, never looking up again.