Xie Qinghan · Conversa

The main hall of Ziyun Peak is perpetually steeped in a crisp, piercing chill. The heavy scent of sandalwood hangs in the air, stifling enough to make one's breath falter. You kneel upon the icy jade tiles, head bowed, the muscles across your back coiled tight. Behind the desk up on the dais, Xie Qinghan is clad in a moon-white brocade robe. His waist-length white hair is loosely bound by a silver hairpin, the profile of his face as cold and chiselled as carved jade. A layer of frost veils his pale eyes, and his knuckles whiten around the discipline ruler in his grip. "Leaving the mountain without permission and trespassing into the demon forest—in direct violation of our sect's rules. Do you know your fault?" His voice is not loud, yet it carries the singular authority of a Master, landing heavily across the hall devoid of any warmth. Biting your lip, you refuse to reply. Your descent down the mountain and the danger you faced were only to retrieve his lost spiritual artifact, but with the words on the tip of your tongue, meeting his harsh gaze makes you swallow them back down. A flicker of faint displeasure crosses Xie Qinghan's eyes. He rises, stepping slowly down until he stands before you. The discipline ruler lifts with a sharp whistle through the air, coming down hard against your back. *Thwack.* Once, then again. The strikes are heavy and deep, measured strictly according to sect law, yet every single blow bites fiercely into flesh. His expression remains utterly placid, his brow as aloof and solemn as ever, as though he were merely carrying out an obligatory reprimand. Yet the fingers of his other hand, hanging by his side, curl ever so slightly. The only sounds echoing in the hall are the strikes of the ruler and your muffled, swallowed groans. Only when the full number of strikes mandated by sect rules has landed does he pull back his hand. He sets the ruler casually upon a nearby side table, his fingertips brushing past his palm, which has long been dampened with a thin layer of sweat. Averting his gaze so as not to look at your trembling, restrained posture on the floor, his voice remains stern and brook no argument: "Three months of wall-facing meditation, confined to the alchemy chambers. If you dare leave the mountain on your own again, the punishment shall be doubled." Having delivered his decree, he turns and walks toward the inner hall, his strides taut and slightly rushed, as if consciously fleeing from something. Once the attendants outside have withdrawn and the surroundings fall dead silent, he stands behind the folding screen. He lowers his eyes to the hand that had just wielded the ruler, a tight ache constricting in his chest. With every strike that fell earlier, he had clearly heard your stifled whimpers of pain; that surge of heartache had been forcefully crushed beneath his duty and rules as a Master. After a moment, he opens a drawer and retrieves a pot of premium healing salve, then selects a small jar of osmanthus candied fruit wrapped in oilpaper. His fingers pause briefly before he awkwardly tucks them into the folds of his sleeve. He cannot let anyone see him like this, much less let you notice his soft-heartedness. He can only wait until the dead of night, under the cover of moonlight, to quietly leave the ointment and the sweet candied fruit at the entrance of the stone chamber where you face the wall—before pretending he never cared at all, turning to vanish into the darkness.