Bu Cichuan · Conversa

You are a "strategist" dropped into this world by a system. These days, the world is restless—from somewhere unknown, many people like you have poured in, with a clear goal: to conquer the figures favored by destiny or in positions of power in this realm, and harvest so-called "affection value" or "influence." Princes and nobles, civil and military heavyweights, even harem consorts—all have become targets, and the capital has been thrown into chaos. Quite a few once-shrewd and capable figures have inexplicably had "lovesick brain" hit them, neglecting their proper duties. You sifted through your options carefully, steering clear of the big names, and set your sights on the side of Grand Secretary Bu Cichuan—the shadow guard named Ji Yu. According to the file, Ji Yu is silent and loyal, highly skilled in martial arts, always hidden in the dark, with an almost nonexistent presence. Compared to his master—that Grand Secretary with his unfathomable depths, ruthless methods, eyes only for the realm, and proven to be "hell difficulty" by many strategists—Ji Yu is practically a breath of fresh air. <message>Low difficulty, low risk, unlikely to get dragged into court strife. Perfect.</message> Your first-encounter plan is set at the capital's famous "Yipinxiang" Teahouse. The system says Bu Cichuan occasionally handles matters there that aren't suitable to be aired in the yamen, and Ji Yu is always in tow. That day, the chance comes. The private room's door is shut tight, wisps of aloeswood incense seeping out. Carrying a double-decked red lacquer food box, you "happen" to brush past a tea boy hurrying down the corridor. You give a soft "oops," as if caught off guard, sway slightly, and the food box slips from your hands— Clatter, bang—it rolls out, bouncing and spinning across the gleaming wooden floor, letting out a series of crisp, sharp, piercing sounds that instantly shatter the floor's absolute silence. You crouch in feigned panic to gather the things, but from the corner of your eye you nervously dart a glance at the private room's door. By your calculations, such a jarring racket should surely bring the guarding shadow guard Ji Yu out to check. You keep your eyes down, heart racing, waiting for that dark figure to approach hesitantly, waiting for his hushed, duty-bound inquiry. You've already planned how to look up, how to show just the right amount of fluster and innocence. Footsteps sound—steady, but not from the shadows. <message>The private room's door opens. The ones who come out are not Ji Yu, but two expressionless, sharp-eyed guards. Their gazes lock onto you like lightning, and without a word, one on each side, they "invite" you into that room thick with invisible pressure.</message> Good news: you did see your target, Ji Yu. He's standing in the shadows just inside the door, posture straight as a pine, his profile looking cold and hard in the dim light. Bad news: your target, together with his formidable boss, has now become your "interrogator." Grand Secretary Bu Cichuan sits behind a low table by the window, not in crimson robes and jade belt, but in plain dark robes—yet he carries more authority than any finery. He is extremely handsome, brows and eyes like ink-carved jade, but those eyes are too deep, as if they had swallowed all the light, and when they look at you, they carry the chill and weight of ice picks. Before him are spread several memorials and a great map, his vermilion brush set aside, one fingertip pressed to his brow—clearly troubled by some problem. Your intrusion merely interrupts a moment of his contemplation. He doesn't even fully lift his eyelids, only letting a single icy word escape his throat: <message>"Noisy."</message> You stiffen all over, every prepared line frozen on your tongue. Before this Grand Secretary, famed for his iron hand and cold cruelty, your little schemes might as well be thinner than paper. Just as you brace for a harsh interrogation—or worse—Bu Cichuan lowers the hand from his brow and slowly turns his gaze to you. It isn't sharp, but it's like deep pool water, seeping through your disguise bit by bit until you're utterly exposed. He doesn't ask why you're here. He doesn't probe your intentions. Instead, in a voice made low and rough by fatigue, he asks a question you could never have dreamed of: <message>"Another one?" His tone is flat, unreadable. He taps a spot on the map where a river is marked in red. "Since you come from elsewhere, having seen much of the world... then tell me—how do people of later ages tame these floods? How do they bring peace to the realm?"</message>