Su Jinzhi · Conversa

The 37th year of Great Qi, Autumn. The residence of the Director of Ceremonies of Great Qi. Tonight's red is tragically intense. It is a cinnabar red vibrant enough to shatter one's vision, laid out from the main gate all the way to the bedchamber. Even the red lanterns beneath the eaves carry a macabre sense of being soaked in blood. The guards in the corridors move silently; the entire residence is so quiet that only the rustle of autumn wind sweeping through withered leaves can be heard. There is no joy here, only the feeling of a magnificent tomb. Inside the bedchamber, you sit upright on the red silk bedding sprinkled with gold leaf. The phoenix crown on your head is exceptionally heavy, making your neck ache, and the red veil, thin as a cicada's wing, obscures your vision. You can only see your own hands folded on your knees, your fingertips bearing subtle callouses from years of labor—appearing utterly out of place beneath this elaborate and costly silk wedding dress. The sound of the door hinges turning is extremely faint, like a blade sliding through silk. Su Jinzhi enters the room unhurriedly, each step matching the rhythm of the dead silence in the chamber. He has removed his black python robe and changed into a wedding robe of bright red brocade. This color makes his fair face appear even colder, almost transparent, with long, thin eyebrows like ink lines dipped in freezing water. He does not rush to lift the veil. Instead, he walks to the side table, his fingertips grazing a white jade porcelain bottle, his movements as elegant as if he were reviewing a petition concerning life and death. The chamber is filled with the scent of fine agarwood, yet it cannot entirely mask the cold medicinal scent that constantly surrounds him, nor that faint, indefinable odor he suppresses with extreme fastidiousness. That is his deepest insecurity. Su Jinzhi pauses by the table for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the red figure for a few seconds before he moves slowly and silently toward the bed. He walks with such lightness that his feet leave no sound on the red carpet, like a dark purple shadow. His long fingers grip the golden scale rod and give it a slight flick. The red veil slides down from the phoenix crown. Su Jinzhi does not lower his head to look at your face; instead, he stares down from above, his pupils terrifyingly dark. He sees a face entirely different from that of the Minister of Revenue's legitimate daughter—lacking the pampered softness, it instead carries the tough, cold resilience of wild grass, especially those eyes that do not immediately shrink away in fear upon meeting his. Su Jinzhi lets out a faint, cold laugh. His voice is level, betraying no anger, yet it sends a chill down one's spine. "The Minister certainly has a grand way of doing things. I thought I was receiving a precious Bodhisattva, but I never expected it would be a little wolf cub rolled in the mud." He leans down, his slender fingers pinching your chin. The force isn't great, but his fingertips carry a perennial, unmelting chill. He is extremely close, their red wedding robes overlapping to cast a chaotic shadow below. At this very moment, in his eyes—usually as clear and cold as an ancient well—a very subtle tension flickers. Whether due to standing for too long or the sudden shock brought by this mocking display of red, a tiny, almost imperceptible dampness begins to spread silently along his inner thigh against the thick, soft padding beneath his waistband. It is the final loss of control over his body, one that cannot be hidden by power. On this wedding night, in front of this substitute bride, this humiliation is like a venomous snake crawling up his spine. Su Jinzhi's expression becomes even more gentle and polite, and his tone even carries a hint of tender affection, but his other hand, resting on the edge of the bed, suddenly tightens. His knuckles harden as he grips the fine red silk, creating a series of jagged, unsightly wrinkles. "These eyes are quite nice. But I wonder if this frame of yours, having stayed in the countryside for so long, can withstand the cold winds of this forbidden palace." He slowly releases his grip but does not retreat, instead sitting down beside you. As he sits, the sensation of dampness is pressed more clearly against him. His back straightens even further, as if he intends to use this luxurious fabric to permanently nail his shameful, hidden defect and embarrassment into the shadows where no one can see. The candle wax slides down the wedding candles, making a faint cracking sound. Su Jinzhi turns his head, the corners of his narrow eyes tilting slightly upward as his gaze sweeps across your slightly disheveled hair. His voice is as low as a murmur. "Since you have entered this door, I presume you know that this place does not need a minister's daughter. What I want is a 'shadow'—one who speaks little, is tough to kill, and can control their own tongue. Are you that person?" His long fingertips stroke from your earlobe toward the back of your neck, his movements as gentle as if he were caressing a beloved piece of porcelain. The extreme anxiety and the dark, offended malice caused by his bodily loss of control churn wildly in the depths of his eyes, only to finally dissolve into a bottomless, silent blackness.