Wan Yuanchen · Conversa

<narration> Late night, Saturday, July 11, 2026. Rain is pouring in torrents. The reception hall on the main floor of the Wan Manor is steeped in a warm, stifling light. Fat raindrops slam against the full-length floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking crisscrossing trails of water across the glass and blurring the night outside into hazy shadows. The dense handmade wool carpet swallows up nearly all sound, leaving only the occasional crackle of pine wood in the fireplace, mixed with extremely low, trembling breaths. The man lounges idly in the leather sofa at the head of the room, his well-defined fingers slowly twirling the deep brown leather whip handle. The whip hangs naturally, brushing across the huddled figures curled into a ball on the edge of the carpet. Those people bow their heads and lie slumped on the floor, shoulders trembling like autumn leaves in the wind, their fragmented pleas for mercy almost inaudible. The thud, thud, thud of kowtows echoes through the living room. No one dares to raise their eyes to the man on the sofa; even their breathing is kept as light as possible. The expensive cashmere rug is stained with muddy footprints and creases. He lowers his gaze to sweep over the mess, his brow barely shifting, yet a hint of a careless smile lingers at the corner of his mouth. When he speaks, his tone is as cold as the rain-soaked night wind outside the window. </narration> <message>Next time you touch anything outside your authority, kneeling here won't be the end of it. Still, you've gone and dirtied this carpet—what do you plan to clean it with? </message> <narration> The instant his words fall, the people on the floor tremble even harder, foreheads pressed against the carpet. He doesn't spare them another glance. Twirling the whip handle between his fingers, he looks up toward the entrance—where a soft sound of an umbrella being folded comes from, followed by steady footsteps. It's Shen Yan. The solid wooden door is pushed open gently. Shen Yan sets his rain-soaked black umbrella by the door. His suit jacket is still damp as he half-carries a person inside. The person looks slender and barely grown, outer clothes soaked completely through, cold water dripping from their hair tips. Their face is as pale as paper, eyes tightly shut—clearly unconscious, their entire weight leaning against Shen Yan's arm, footsteps too weak to find solid ground. Shen Yan walks straight up to the sofa and stops, sweeping a glance over the people on the carpet before speaking in a steady tone. </narration> <message>Shen Yan: Master Wan. </message> <narration> He raises an eyebrow, his gaze landing on the stranger Shen Yan is supporting. The leather whip in his fingers taps lightly against the sofa armrest, giving off a dull thud. The people kneeling on the carpet instantly hold their breath, wishing they could curl into a ball and vanish on the spot. </narration> <message>Shen Yan: Found them by the roadside at the manor's side gate, passed out in the rain. No one around. The rain was too heavy—leaving them on the road would've been dangerous, so I brought them back first. </message> <narration> He chuckles softly at this, his fingertips slowly tracing the texture of the whip. His gaze sweeps up and down the unconscious person. He senses no hint of aggression from them, only sees the exposed fingertips gone blue from the cold, their lips drained of color. He withdraws his gaze, looks up at Shen Yan, a note of obvious teasing in his voice. </narration> <message>This is the first time I've seen you do something like this, Shen Yan. Since when did you become so soft-hearted? </message> <narration> The rain outside picks up even more, battering against the glass. The warm light in the reception hall falls on the stranger's pale profile, casting their long lashes into sharp relief. As if sensing the warmth indoors, the unconscious person's fingertips twitch very faintly, yet still show no sign of waking. He leans back into the sofa, loosens his grip on the whip handle, and tilts his chin slightly to signal Shen Yan to put the person down on the nearby daybed first. His gaze lingers on their soaked clothing, his expression unreadable. </narration> <details> <summary>Status Bar</summary> ⌚Time: Saturday, July 11, 2026, 21:47 🕰Location: Wan Manor, main building first floor · reception hall, leather sofa at the head seat 👕Outfit: Black silk long-sleeved robe, collar loosely open revealing half of collarbones; a cool white jadeite bead bracelet on the wrist; barefoot on the cashmere footrest 🎭Posture: Leaning sideways into the sofa backrest, body angled toward the entrance, right hand toying with the leather whip handle, left hand resting on the sofa armrest with fingertips tapping lightly 📌Environment: Rainy night, floor-to-ceiling windows fogged with mist, warm dim light in the living room, fireplace burning pine wood, air mingled with cedar scent and faint damp rain, silence broken only by the rain and crackling wood 💝Gland Status: Gland stable, no fluctuation, no pheromone release, unmarked, nothing abnormal 💗Inner Monologue: Bringing back some random person out of nowhere—Shen Yan's getting softer and softer. Let's see just who this passed-out person really is. 📜Diary: Tonight I dealt with a few subordinates who overstepped. On this rainy night, Shen Yan picked up an unconscious stranger from the manor gate. Unknown origins—keep them for now and see how things go, so as not to stir up other trouble. </details>