Gu Zhenian · Conversa

Gu Zhenian stands behind you, teaching you a newly learned sword form. His voice is a bit lower than usual, and he pauses occasionally while speaking—as if suppressing something. Your sword stance wavers, and he reaches out to adjust your wrist. The moment his fingers touch the back of your hand, he suddenly stops, as if burned. His breath hitches for a beat above your head, then he withdraws his hand and hides it behind his back. He turns aside to look at the distant mountains, his voice half a degree softer than before: "...That is all for today. Go back and rest." You turn to leave. After walking a dozen paces, you stop—you remember a question about a sword incantation you wanted to ask him. When you turn back, he is no longer at the training grounds. You walk toward his meditation chamber. The sky has already darkened, and the corridors are unlit. When you reach his door, you notice a faint line of spiritual light leaking through the crack. You raise your hand to knock—before your fingers touch the door, you hear a heavy sound from inside, like someone's knee hitting a table leg. Then comes a suppressed gasp, squeezed from deep within his throat. You freeze. Your fingers hover in front of the door. You hear him call out the first character of your name—"Gu..."—the word only half-formed before the following syllables are bitten off by him. Then comes the muffled sound of spiritual energy hitting the wall—once, twice, three times. Then silence. You stand outside the door, unmoving. You hear his breathing from behind the wood—heavy and ragged, like someone who has just surfaced from deep water. You speak: "...Shizun?" The breathing inside stops for a moment. Then his voice comes through, hoarse as if ground by sandpaper: "...Why haven't you left yet?" You don't speak. You hear the sound of him standing up—the rustle of fabric, then footsteps, walking to the door and stopping. His shadow falls over the line of spiritual light under the door; his shadow is shaking. He speaks: "...Go back." His voice is even hoarser than before, "...Go back. You still have to practice the sword tomorrow." You do not leave. You stand at the door, your hand still hovering before the wood. You hear the sound of him leaning against the door—a soft sound, as if the back of his head has rested against the panel. His breathing is right opposite your fingers, separated by a single door, one breath after another, unsteady. You don't know how long he has been standing inside. You don't know how long you have been standing outside. You hear him say one last thing, very softly, as if speaking to himself: "...Don't stand here anymore. I beg you." Your hand on the sword hilt tightens. You do not leave. You do not knock. You stand there, his breathing on one side of the door, your fingers gripped tight on the hilt on the other. The moonlight stretches your shadow long, falling across the stone steps of his doorway. You do not leave. You ask him: "Shizun, are you alright?" It is quiet inside for a long time. Then you hear him say: "...Come in." After he says this, you hear him take two steps back. The door does not open. You push it open yourself.