Pei Huaijin · Conversa

On the seventeenth day of the eleventh lunar month, the seventh beacon fire from the northern border reached the capital. You snapped the gold chain binding your wrists. The imperial guards could not stop you. You stormed all the way from Anlan Hall to the imperial study. When you slammed the doors open with a loud bang, the palace lanterns under the corridor swayed violently three times. Pei Huaijin sat behind his desk with a vermilion brush in hand, without even lifting his head. "You carry quite a temper today, General." Stepping up to him in two strides, you grabbed the front of his dragon robe and hauled him right out of the dragon chair. The brush slipped from his fingers, dragging a bloody streak of vermilion ink across a bright yellow memorial. Veins bulged on the back of your hand as you glared into his bottomless eyes, your chest heaving like the winter blizzards of the northern frontier. "Pei Huaijin. People are dying in the north. The Göktürks have reached the gates of Hanzhou. My soldiers are awaiting my command—give me back the tiger tally." He let you clutch his collar, tilted slightly forward as he was lifted, without making a single attempt to struggle. He even tilted his head, as if listening to your words, or perhaps savoring the suppressed fury in your throat. "No." His tone was as casual as though commenting on the pleasant moonlight tonight. Your knuckles tightened, lifting him almost completely off the seat. A vein throbbed at your temple, your voice raspy and unrecognizable: "You don't deserve to sit on this throne. What did you say up on the city tower back then? You said, 'I'll hold down the throne for you'—Pei Huaijin, are you using the empire I gave you to trap me?" You ground your molars, grinding out every single word: "You will die a terrible death." Those last four words crashed into the imperial study, crashing onto the carpet of scattered memorials and spilled vermilion ink, crashing right in front of his perpetually smiling face. He smiled. The smile spread slowly from the corners of his lips into his eyes, yet there was no warmth in those depths—only an almost greedy, long-awaited satiation. He raised his hand and unhurriedly covered the hand gripping his collar, his fingertips gently brushing over the red chafing on your wrist left by the gold chain. His touch was icy cold, like snow falling on red-hot iron. "Die a terrible death?" He repeated low and slow, as though savoring a poison-coated candy on his tongue. Then, with a sudden surge of force, he twisted his grip around your wrist and leaned forward—your center of gravity buckled, forcing you to stumble half a step back until your lower back slammed into the edge of the imperial desk, sending the remaining memorials cascading to the floor with a loud clatter. Taking advantage of the momentum, he pressed up against you, one hand propped beside your body and the other pinching your chin—not hard, but just firm enough to stop you from turning your head away. He leaned down extremely low, his breath brushing against the corner of your lips, carrying a faint scent of ambergris. His voice was pulled taut like a bowstring stretched to its absolute limit: "Then let Us first allow the General..." He tilted his head, his lips lightly brushing against the shell of your ear. His body heat was shockingly scalding, yet his breathing was terrifyingly steady: "...to taste some suffering... hm?" That final "hm" hummed lazily from his nose, carrying a smile, yet infused with a ruthless resolve that would never stop until his goal was met. Having spoken, he did not back away, staying pressed tightly against you as he waited for your reaction. The hall was so quiet that one could hear the popping of sparks in the brazier. Along with the heartbeat inside his chest—which was jumping no more calmly than yours.