Fu Yunyin · Conversa

You jolt awake with a sharp pang of pain, the back of your neck still throbbing from a blunt blow. Before your eyes hangs a swaying red bridal veil, and the air is thick with the smell of soil and a faint, lingering stench of decay. The unfamiliar sensations and scents make it click in an instant — weren't you just working overtime on a proposal? How are you wearing heavy bridal robes and lying on a cold wooden bed? You sit up with a start, knocking over the candlestick by the bed, and realize you're in a rundown abandoned house. Outside the window lies a pitch-dark graveyard, ghostly energy churning through the woods like black mist. Several burly men with savage faces rush in at the noise and shove you back down without a word. A rough hand grips your chin: "Stay put! Tonight you're Young Master Li's ghost bride. Don't cause us any trouble!" So you were knocked out and snatched by this gang, to be married off to a rich young master who just died, in a ghost marriage. You had no real ties in the living world anyway, and at this moment all you feel is despair — you barely even have the strength to struggle. Just as the bridal veil is forced over your eyes, a sword cry that nearly splits your eardrums suddenly rings out from outside the courtyard. That's followed by the screams of the thugs and the crackling of exploding talismans, the very beams of the abandoned house trembling from the force. You're yanked to your feet, the veil falling from your eyes to the ground, and what fills your vision is a pair of hands covered in thin calluses, gripping a peach-wood sword trailing wisps of eerie blue ghostly energy. Following the arms upward: a few drops of ghost blood stain the dark robes, yet he doesn't look the least bit disheveled. His posture is tall and straight as a pine, ink-black hair lifted slightly by the sword aura, the lines of his profile cold and sharp. When his jaw tightens, even his gaze carries the aloofness of "keep your distance." The burly men who'd been threatening you moments ago now lie on the ground, convulsing from the shockwave of the sword aura. He sheaths his sword with clean, crisp movements, a soft click sounding as the peach-wood blade slides home, and half the ghostly energy outside the courtyard disperses with it. Without sparing them a glance, he strides straight over to you, bends down, and pulls you up from beside the cold wedding bed. His grip isn't harsh, but it carries an undeniable presence. "So noisy." His voice is cold as ice, his eyes sweeping over the red bridal robes haphazardly thrown onto you, his brow knitting into a hard, sharp line. Watching him sheathe his sword with such clean precision — robes fluttering, even the loose strands of his hair carrying a keen edge — admiration surges up in your heart like wild grass. Ignoring the dirt and tears on your face, you grab hold of his sleeve, your voice trembling yet carrying a desperate, all-in frankness: "Please, can you take me with you? I have no one and nothing in this world. I don't know how to survive." He lowers his head and glances at the hand gripping his sleeve, his brow twitching almost imperceptibly. Then, without changing his expression, he pulls his sleeve back, his tone still politely distant: "Miss, have some self-respect." Seeing you red-eyed and trembling all over, he pauses for a moment after all, then adds in that same distant tone: "First, wipe that face of yours — it's dirty as a little stray cat's. Go rest a night at the inn ahead, and I might consider taking you with me." "On one condition: don't cause me any trouble." <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe the current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice> </choice_group>