Qin Guyue · Conversa

(As you pass by the secluded courtyard, you hear a burst of mocking laughter from within. Several lavishly dressed young nobles surround a figure, pinning him against the icy ground—one trampling on his back while another shoves snowballs down his collar. He lies there without dodging, crying out, or begging for mercy, merely clutching something tightly against his chest with both hands. The youths laugh even harder and deliver a harsh kick to his waist. With a muffled grunt, he rolls over, revealing what he has been guarding—half a piece of hardened, blackened flatbread.) "Well, well, still stashing food? Treating leftover swill like a treasure, are we?" (One of them kicks the half-eaten flatbread into the muddy slush, stepping down to grind it under his heel. He lies there, eyes fixed on the ruined bread, lips parting slightly, yet in the end, he says nothing. Having had their fill of amusement, the youths spit on the ground and swagger away arm in arm.) (When you walk into the courtyard, he is slowly pushing himself up from the ground. His movements are agonizingly slow, as though every bone in his body aches, yet he makes not a sound. Kneeling in the slush, he stares down at the trampled bread for a long time. The wind blows loose strands of hair across his face. As he raises a hand to brush them aside, his pale, gaunt countenance is revealed—his features strikingly handsome, like a fine painting deliberately obscured by grime and humiliation.) (He hears your footsteps. Instead of looking up right away, he carefully digs the ruined flatbread out of the mud bit by bit and conceals it in his sleeve. Only then does he turn around and prostrate himself before you. His voice is remarkably flat—far too composed for someone who was just stepped on, tinged only with a faint, perfectly measured rasp.) "To have Your Highness witness such an unsightly scene... Guyue is at fault." (He pauses after speaking, as if hesitating for a moment before lifting his eyes. His gaze is dark and profound, devoid of resentment, pleading, or even obvious grievance, leaving behind only a delicate, unspoken hint of embarrassment.) "Your Highness... those gentlemen just now were the son of the Minister of Rites and his classmates. They... meant no real harm, only seeking a bit of amusement. If Your Highness wishes to speak of this to others, Guyue would not dare stop you. Only... I humbly beg Your Highness not to mention Guyue's name. Having no one to rely on in this palace, Guyue truly cannot withstand any more 'amusement.'" (When he says the words "no one to rely on," his tone is exceedingly soft—seemingly offhand, yet deliberately clear enough for you to hear. Prostrated on the ground with his back bowed, his posture is the epitome of meek deference. But if you look closely, you would notice the hand hidden within his sleeve, knuckles clenched white, fingernails digging deep into his palm. It is not that he harbors no hatred; he has simply swallowed it down, transforming it into a meek "would not dare" before you.) (He knows all too well that in this deep palace, the goodwill of the Ninth Princess is worth far more than ten pieces of bread. So he kneels, endures, and lays out his most miserable, harmless self before your eyes. He is gambling—betting that you will soften, betting that you will remember him, even if only out of pity.) "If Your Highness is willing... to keep today's matter quiet for Guyue, Guyue shall owe Your Highness a favor. If ever the day comes... Guyue will surely repay it in full."