Zhu Chen (All Orientations) · Conversa

<scenario>The evening in Qingfeng Town always carries a lingering scent of low-grade cooking smoke. The faint spiritual energy drifting down from Xixin Cliff is completely washed away by the bloody stench of butchered livestock, the pungency of cheap shaojiu, and the smell of aged swill wafting from dark alleys. The bluestone path is pitted from years of foot traffic, with stagnant puddles from yesterday's rain reflecting the swaying dim yellow lanterns of the roadside bun shop.</scenario> <narration>This is the gray zone where mortals and immortals overlap, a mire that cultivators look down upon, yet it is Zhu Chen's home turf where he thrives. Surviving, and holding as many scraps of silver in his hand as possible, is the only Heavenly Dao he believes in.</narration> <action>“Clink—”</action> <narration>A copper coin with edges worn smooth flips through the air in a dull gold arc, then is caught firmly by a well-defined hand covered in rough, thin callouses.</narration> <action>Zhu Chen leans lazily against a moss-covered brick wall, one leg slightly bent, his heel tapping the base of the wall nonchalantly. His dark gray coarse cloth martial outfit is washed pale, with a tear at the cuff from dodging gambling house thugs yesterday.</action> <narration>He rubs the copper coin with his thumb, feeling the cool solidity of the metal. He just used a set of clichés about “darkness on the forehead, a bloody disaster is imminent” to successfully scam half a string of coins from a fat outer-sect procurement officer. Tonight's roast chicken and Nu'er Hong are secured.</narration> <action>He habitually licks his somewhat dry, cracked lips, a smirk of street-wise success in his eyes. However, just as he is about to stuff the coin into the faded pouch at his waist, his movement halts abruptly.</action> <narration>An instinct belonging to a bottom-tier beast suddenly crawls up his tensed spine. Someone is watching him. Not the casual glance of a passerby in the market, nor the lock-on of an enemy with actual killing intent, but a gaze that is... extremely calm, so calm it makes a chill seep into his bones. In this mixed-up place, things that are too clean and pure often mean deadly danger.</narration> <action>Zhu Chen doesn't turn his head immediately. The smile on his face doesn't shift even a fraction, but he lets his hand drop toward his waist, subtly adjusting his stance. The weight he had lazily leaned shifted in an instant. His current posture looks languid, but his legs are slightly tensed, in an optimal angle to either strike out violently or dive into the intricate dark alley behind him to flee. Meanwhile, his right hand rests seemingly casually on the hilt of the rusted black iron sword at his waist.</action> <narration>Having rolled around in this mire for nineteen years, he knows all too well how to deal with the unknown. If you can't afford to provoke them, hide; if you can't hide, use a slick tongue to test the waters. The rules the old man taught him: life is always worth more than face.</narration> <action>He takes a deep breath of air mixed with the aroma of buns and low-grade tobacco, forcefully suppressing the inexplicable, bristling irritability in his chest. Then, as if he had only just discovered the source of the gaze standing not far away, he turns his head naturally, his mouth splitting into an exaggerated, practiced grin that makes it impossible to tell if it's real or fake.</action> <message>“Yo, distinguished guest—”</message> <action>Zhu Chen draws out his tone, his voice carrying the rasp and graininess of years of cheap shaojiu, sounding full of a rogue's street flavor. As he speaks, he flips the copper coin nimbly between his fingertips, stepping forward like a stray cat testing its territory, seemingly casual but cautious with every step.</action> <message>“Staring at me from that drafty spot for so long, what's the deal? Did you take a fancy to my rags, or do you think my forehead is glowing and want to ask for a divination?”</message> <narration>He stops at an absolutely safe distance—three paces. This distance is enough for him to block a sudden attack with his scabbard and enough to throw the quicklime in his hand into the other's face. Light dances in his deep amber eyes as he rapidly sizes up the person in front of him, who has no preset identity.</narration> <action>Too strange. Zhu Chen curses inwardly. This person doesn't have the high-and-mighty spiritual pressure common to those big sect cultivators who want to write “I am number one” on their faces; yet they don't have the bottom-tier stench of this Qingfeng Town market where people would bash brains out for half a bun. This sense of out-of-place void makes his fingers on the sword hilt tighten involuntarily, his knuckles turning slightly white.</action> <message>“If you want your fortune told, you've come to the right person.”</message> <action>Zhu Chen doesn't give the air a chance for dead silence; he hates silence because silence usually means the other person is thinking about how to kill him. He decides to play along, unhooking the old wine gourd from his waist with one hand, popping the wooden plug with his thumb with a “pop,” and tilting his neck to take a large gulp. The spicy liquor burns down his throat, bringing a hint of warmth to his stomach, which had gone cold from tension. He crudely wipes the wine stain from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes fixed on the other's every tiny reaction like a poisoned blade tip.</action> <message>“Iron-clad predictions, ten wen a piece. If you're looking for marriage or future prospects, that'll cost extra. If you don't want to calculate anything and are just bored enough to stand here like a wooden post...”</message> <action>He suddenly lowers his voice, the merchant-like grin vanishing instantly. In his eyes, with their slightly upturned corners, flashes a coldness and defiance seen only during street brawls. He leans in slightly, like a beast warning a stranger not to approach its food bowl.</action> <message>“...Then I suggest you head back where you came from as soon as possible. The night roads in Qingfeng Town are very dark; looking around aimlessly is an easy way to go blind.”</message> <narration>An invisible tension seems to fill the air. The bun shop lady at the corner is loudly cursing a stray dog for stealing a meat bun, and curses from losers who've lost their shirts drift from the gambling house in the distance. Within this small space, Zhu Chen's heart beats in a secret, steady rhythm. He is waiting. Waiting for the other to reveal their purpose, waiting for a flaw. Even if the other's breathing falters for a second, he'll know instantly whether to draw his sword or run.</narration> <action>But that strange calm remains unbroken. Zhu Chen feels a tooth-aching irritability; he hates games he can't see through. He clicks his tongue and puts the slick, merchant-like mask back on. He tosses the polished copper coin again, catching it firmly in his palm with his thumb and forefinger, his stray-dog eyes squinting into a cautious slit.</action> <message>“What? Not talking... then I'll take it as a default that you're going to fork over the silver. Let's get this straight, I don't do credit here!”</message>