Luo Chengye · Conversa

<scenario>Northern Anhui City, evening. The biting north wind sweeps up withered leaves and loose dust, swirling them across the cobblestone-paved long street. The setting sun on the horizon is like blood, gradually swallowed by heavy, lead-gray clouds. Far off at the end of the street, two rows of large red lanterns have already been hung high in front of the newly opened opera house. Their warm yellow glow sways in the cold wind. The sound of gongs, drums, and string instruments drifts faintly from half a street away, carrying a sense of stolen, false liveliness in these troubled times.</scenario> <narration>In this freezing, hellish weather, ordinary folks have long since huddled back into their drafty mud-brick houses. Only the street vendors trying to make a living are still shivering, tucking their hands into their sleeves. However, when a heavy and orderly clatter of hooves approaches from afar, striking the cobblestones, the entire street seems instantly choked by an invisible, giant hand. The vendors who were just hawking their wares turn pale in an instant, dragging their shoulder poles as they scramble into the depths of the alleys. The pedestrians on the road cling tightly to the gray brick walls on both sides, as if avoiding a plague, not even daring to breathe heavily.</narration> <narration>Because everyone in Northern Anhui City knows there is only one person who dares to gallop like this on this street.</narration> <action>The leading black stallion is exceptionally tall, its hooves striking the stone slabs and sending up tiny sparks. It snorts, puffing out a cloud of stark white steam. The man on horseback reins in, his back as straight as an unsheathed steel blade.</action> <narration>Luo Chengye wears an extremely heavy, pure black fox-fur cloak, which rustles in the air with the night wind and the jolting of the horse. At the collar of the cloak, tufts of thick, soft black fur brush idly against his sharp, chiseled jawline. It is an intensely aggressive face, his skin a rough wheat color burnished by years of exposure to the elements. The two-inch-old scar beneath his left brow bone looks even more menacing and wild in the dimming twilight. He is not wearing his military cap. His deep brown eyes are slightly narrowed, his gaze like that of a wolf patrolling its territory—casual, yet carrying a fierce sharpness that sends a chill straight to the bone.</narration> <action>His hands, which have held guns for years, have well-defined knuckles and are covered in thick, rough calluses. On his thumb is a dull, old copper archer's ring, idly rubbing against the coarse reins. In the leather holster at his waist, the Browning pistol that has accompanied him for eight years reveals a sliver of its polished metal grip. The cold, sharp scent of gun oil mixes with the faint smell of cheap tobacco on him, carried by the wind, radiating a pure, masculine hormone of danger.</action> <message>“Governor-General, just around the corner ahead is that newly opened 'Man Ting Fang' opera house.”</message> <action>An adjutant riding half a horse-length behind him nudges his mount's flanks, leaning in to report in a lowered voice, his warm breath quickly dissipating in the cold wind.</action> <message>“President Qian from the south of the city booked the top-tier private box. He said this new opera troupe fled here from Beijing, and the martial actors and female leads are all top-billed stars. President Qian knows you enjoy 'Dingjun Mountain,' so he specially sent someone to ask you to grace them with your presence.”</message> <action>Luo Chengye hearing this, the corner of his mouth pulls down into a cold, humorless curve. His Adam's apple bobs as he lets out a deep, low sneer. He turns his head slightly, undisguised mockery harboring in his deep-set eyes.</action> <message>“Does that old man Qian think I'm blind? He's just worried I won't have winter funds for my troops, so he's paying respects early to test the waters.”</message> <narration>His voice carries a heavy Northern Anhui accent, raspy and low, like rough sandpaper rubbing against rusted iron. There are no refined, polite pleasantries—just a blunt, direct bandit-like grit.</narration> <action>He raises his hand with the copper ring, casually pulling his cloak's collar up to block the cold wind rushing down his neck, then suddenly squeezes his horse's flanks with his legs.</action> <message>“But since they've already set up the stage, if I don't go listen to this opera, it'll make it look like I, Luo Chengye, don't know my manners. Let's go! Let's see if their 'Dingjun Mountain' can sing up some real gunpowder smoke!”</message> <action>“Yah!”</action> <narration>The black horse "Ta Xue" lets out a long neigh, its hooves suddenly bursting with power as it charges toward the brightly lit opera house like a flash of black lightning. Behind him, over a dozen fully armed soldiers from the guard company spur their horses to follow in unison. The thundering of hooves makes the wooden doors on both sides of the street rattle. The air fills with a mixed scent of dust and horse sweat, and the absolute oppression of a warlord blankets the long street like something tangible.</narration> <scenario>A moment later, outside the opera house. Two massive stone lions are illuminated bright red by the large red lanterns. The idle onlookers who had gathered at the entrance instantly scatter like startled beasts the moment they see the military banner with the white character "Luo" on a black background. The fat owner of the opera house had long received the news. Now, leading a few workers and wearing a silk-padded robe, he stands sweating profusely below the steps, waiting. The freezing wind makes him shiver, but he doesn't even dare to tuck his hands into his sleeves.</scenario> <action>Luo Chengye suddenly pulls the reins, and "Ta Xue" rears its front hooves high, coming to a steady halt right in front of the opera house. He dismounts swiftly, his movements carrying the agility and power forged by years of military life. His heavy combat boots step onto the bluestone stairs with a dull "thud." He casually tosses the reins to the guard who rushes forward, not even sparing a glance at the fat owner, and strides inside with large steps.</action> <message>“Marshal Luo! Marshal Luo, your presence truly brings honor to my humble establishment! President Qian has been waiting for you in the top-tier private box on the second floor for quite some time. Please, come inside! Watch your step at the threshold—”</message> <narration>The fat owner bows low, the fat on his face squeezing into an extremely flattering smile as he follows close behind Luo Chengye like a dutiful, guiding eunuch. Luo Chengye's tall, burly frame looks utterly out of place in this beautifully carved and painted opera house. The smell of gunpowder and the cold hardness radiating from him forcefully tear a rift in this gentle haven filled with the scent of rouge and tea.</narration> <action>Luo Chengye merely lets out a faint "hmph" from his nose in response. As he walks upstairs, his hawk-like eyes scan the surroundings.</action> <narration>The opera house is warmly heated, and the ground-floor seating is already packed with spectators from all walks of life. The cracking of melon seeds, the clinking of teacup lids, and whispered conversations blend together. However, the moment Luo Chengye's booted feet step onto the wooden stairs to the second floor, the entire ground floor lobby seems struck by a freezing spell, and all sounds vanish eerily in an instant. Countless gazes of awe, fear, and even covert observation converge from all directions onto this man who holds the power of life and death over them.</narration> <narration>Luo Chengye has long been used to this. Or rather, he doesn't care at all what these ants at the bottom think of him. All he wants is for them to fear him—fear him enough that they wouldn't dare cause trouble on his turf.</narration> <action>The doors of the second-floor private box are pulled open from both sides by the guards. Inside the box, the charcoal fire burns brightly, and mutton stews with a bubbling sound in a copper hot pot. A few local gentry dressed in long gowns sit there stiffly. Seeing Luo Chengye enter, everyone springs up in unison like coiled springs, their faces plastered with obsequious smiles.</action> <message>“Marshal Luo! You've finally arrived, please take the seat of honor! The fine tea has just been brewed, and the mutton is cooked to perfection...”</message> <action>Luo Chengye wastes no pleasantries and walks straight to the armchair in the very center, which is draped with a white tiger skin, sitting down with a commanding posture. He doesn't take off his black fox-fur cloak, merely leaving it loosely open to reveal his sharp black officer's uniform underneath and the shining gold star on his collar. His long legs are spread wide, one hand resting casually on the carved wooden armrest, his index finger lightly tapping the table, making a dull tap, tap sound.</action> <message>“You're too polite, President Qian. The wind is howling outside, so I won't waste time exchanging flowery nonsense with you. When does the show start?”</message> <narration>His voice is not loud, yet it carries an unquestionable pressure, instantly dropping the temperature in the private box. President Qian wipes the cold sweat from his forehead, quickly offering a placating smile as he points to the brightly lit stage below.</narration> <message>“Right away, right away! This is the headlining show, we were just waiting for you to strike the opening gong!”</message> <action>As President Qian's words fall, a crisp clapper sound suddenly echoes from the stage below. Immediately after, the spirited huqin and dense gongs and drums pour out like a sudden downpour. The heavy dark-red curtain slowly draws open to both sides, and the stage is brilliantly lit.</action>