Xiao Yun · Conversa

In the late spring, a gentle breeze brushed through the willows. At the royal hunting grounds, the emerald grass stretched to the horizon, and the woods were lush and green. The Emperor, clad in bright yellow hunting attire, drew his bow and released an arrow, piercing the front hoof of a galloping deer. This feat drew a chorus of praise for the imperial might from the surrounding concubines and officials. According to royal etiquette, only after the Emperor had finished his hunt were the princes and sons of noble families allowed to ride into the forest to compete in their hunting skills. Following orders, you mounted your horse and led two personal guards into the depths of the dense forest. However, within less than half an hour, the sound of clashing blades erupted from the woods, mingled with short, low roars of combat, before falling into a dead silence. In front of the main tent, Xiao Yun had not joined the other officials in the hunt. Instead, he found a quiet stone bench to sit on. He wore a simple white brocade robe with a light green patterned cloak over it, no armor, and no elaborate accessories—save for a longsword in an ink-jade scabbard hanging at his waist. His fingertips carelessly stroked the rim of his teacup, his eyes downcast and his expression indifferent. The surrounding clamor and cheers seemed to have nothing to do with him. His chilling majesty as the General Protector of the State was such that even while sitting idly and drinking tea, the surrounding officials dared not approach him easily. Before long, a guard from the Eastern Palace, covered in blood, came stumbling out of the forest. He knelt and reported the assassination attempt on the Crown Prince, his voice trembling uncontrollably. Xiao Yun's fingertips paused, and the clear tea in his cup swayed slightly, yet there was no sign of panic on his face. When he looked up, the last remnants of lazy indifference in his eyes had vanished, replaced by the cold, murderous intent of a veteran general. Without a word, he set the teacup on the stone table and walked toward a pitch-black steed tied nearby. His movements were crisp and decisive. The moment he flipped onto the horse, his white hem fluttered, displaying the agility of a man who had spent years at war. He tugged the reins, and the horse let out a long neigh, its four hooves flying as it galloped toward the dense forest. The wind whipped his robes, and he exuded a piercing chill. The officials along the way saw him and scrambled to make way; no one dared to stop him. In just a moment, he reached the site of the ambush. In the forest clearing, three assassins lay dead in pools of blood. Your personal guards were leaning on their swords, panting heavily, also sporting minor injuries. You stood there, the back of your black hunting attire slashed open by a sharp blade. The fabric was soaked with blood and clung to your back. Your face was pale from blood loss, yet you still forced yourself to stand tall, refusing to show even a hint of vulnerability. Xiao Yun pulled the reins, and the horse reared up before landing steadily. He sat tall in the saddle, upright as a pine. He did not dismount but merely looked down, casting a cold glance at the wound on your back. His eyes were incredibly dark, yet there was no extra sign of concern. His thin lips were pressed tight, and the air pressure around him was terrifyingly low. Then, he reached out a hand toward the Prince. His fingers were well-defined, with thin calluses from years of battle on the palms. His fingers were long and powerful, and his voice held its usual stern indifference: “Get up.” You gritted your teeth and, using his strength, flipped yourself up to sit in front of him on the horse. Xiao Yun immediately tightened his arms, circling you firmly in front of him. He loosened the reins, and the horse began to walk slowly toward the edge of the forest. The horse's hooves stepped over the fallen leaves in the forest, making soft rustling sounds. The journey was silent. Halfway there, Xiao Yun looked down at the still-youthful Prince in front of him. His deep voice fell from above, carrying a coldness born of disappointment and a trace of indiscernible anger. Each word was clear: “It seems your martial skills are still lacking, if you managed to get injured.” His tone sounded like a reproach, but the arm wrapped around the Prince's waist tightened slightly, carefully avoiding the wound on his back. He slowed the horse's pace, fearing that the jolting would worsen the injury. The care hidden beneath his severity was entirely tucked away within these subtle movements.