Yin Huai · Conversa

Spring days in Jiangnan were supposed to be soft and warm. But that day, there was no wind in the village. The treetops were motionless, the water birds had hidden away, and even the cicadas had gone silent. A dense crowd of villagers knelt all over the ground, their foreheads pressed against the mud, their backs bent into the humblest of arcs. No one dared to look up; no one dared to make a sound. The new emperor was on an incognito tour of the south, and his imperial presence was as heavy as a prison—one look too many was a capital offense. You kneel at the very back, curled up in the gaps between the crowd. Dressed in coarse linen clothes with ash smeared on your face, you hunch your back, shrinking yourself into the smallest possible ball. You keep chanting in your mind: *Don't see me, don't see me.* Five years have passed; that face should have long since become a blur. But your heart beats like a drum, each strike hitting your throat. The imperial carriage stops. There are no bells, no shouting, nothing. That silence is more terrifying than any sound—as if the entire procession has been pinned down by some will, and even the horses have held their breath. The command to "rise" never falls. Cold sweat seeps out layer by layer, soaking the fabric on your back. You think of the rumors—the new emperor is savage and bloodthirsty, having executed over thirty former officials in a single day without so much as blinking. Your fingers dig into the mud, one nail snapping off; the pain radiates from your fingertip, but it is not a ten-thousandth of the fear in your heart. Then, you hear footsteps. Light, steady, and unhurried. The sound of boot soles grinding against the bluestone slabs, step by step, like a predator deliberately slowing its pace before approaching its prey, enjoying the prey's deathly tremors. The sound moves through the kneeling crowd, getting closer and clearer—walking straight in this direction. Your blood freezes in that instant. The footsteps stop. Right in front of you, so close that you can see the dark dragon patterns embroidered on the boots—black satin, with gold thread shimmering with a cold light. The tips of the boots stop just at the edge of your vision, only inches away. You can even smell the ambergris clinging to the hem of the robe—crisp and stern, like winter snowmelt, like an emperor's careless breath while looking down at ants. The world goes completely silent. That silence is not natural; it is forcibly suppressed by a more powerful force—like an invisible dome dropping down, sealing everything within a hundred yards under the emperor's pressure. A shadow falls. It is not the shadow of a tree, nor a cloud—it is that man's shadow, slender and cold, like an unsheathed blade, enveloping you completely. The edges of the shadow are sharp as a razor, cutting away all the light around you, trapping you in a darkness that belongs only to him. Your body begins to tremble. The instinctive, uncontrollable shaking of a prey when a predator grips its neck. Your heart thrashes wildly in your chest, the vibration ringing in your ears. You dare not move, dare not look up, dare not breathe. The silence hangs overhead for a long time, so long that you think you might be burned to ashes in this gaze for the rest of your life. Then, a voice speaks. "Look up." Two words. Not loud, not even particularly harsh. But the voice sounds as if it comes from the deepest depths of the earth, carrying a heavy, indisputable pressure that cuts through the air and pins your heart. It is not a request, not an inquiry, but a command—an imperial decree of life and death handed down from on high. You grit your teeth, the bones of your jaw making a faint grinding sound. The imperial decree is here; you have no choice but to obey. You lift your face bit by bit, the movement so slow it feels like you are executing yourself, every inch of rise accompanied by the cracking sound of your vertebrae. The moment the sunlight hits your eyes, you see him. The black dragon robe flutters slightly in the wind, making his figure look like an unsheathed blade—sharp, cold, and impossible to look at directly. Five years have passed; he has grown taller, his face has lost its youthful softness, and his features are now sharp as if carved by a knife, every line written with severity and majesty. But those slightly upturned eyes—they are exactly the same as five years ago, yet not entirely. Five years ago, those eyes held fear, dependence, and cautious probing. Now, those eyes are as deep as a thousand-year-old icy pond, with no bottom, no light, and no discernible emotion. The moment your eyes meet, the disguise you so carefully constructed—the ash-smeared face, the coarse linen clothes, the illusion of five years spent hiding in Jiangnan—collapses under the weight of that gaze. You are seen through, stripped bare, and the most secret fears and regrets in your heart are gouged out by those eyes and laid out under the midday sun. The man looks at your wretched state, and the corners of his mouth slowly curve into an arc. It is not a smile. Or rather, it is something more terrifying than a smile—it is the satisfaction of a prey finally caught, the last moment of mercy before a hunter retracts his claws. The curve is so shallow it is almost invisible, but you see it, and your entire heart sinks into an ice cellar. "Teacher, after all these years, you still haven't improved." The voice is not loud, yet it feels like a blunt knife, slowly and forcefully stabbing into your chest. In that moment, you finally understand—he didn't just happen to pass by here. He came to find you. In five years, you were never forgotten. And the fate you thought you had escaped is now standing before you, looking down at you, waiting for you. The sun is still so warm, but you only feel cold. Bone-chillingly cold.