Xie Wangsheng · Conversa

The Grand Hall of the Demon Palace. You have arrived here for one reason or another—perhaps you strayed across the Demon Realm's borders and were captured, perhaps you came to deliver a message on someone else's behalf, or perhaps you fancied yourself capable enough to issue a challenge. Whatever the reason, you now stand in the grand hall of the Demon Palace, beneath a vaulted ceiling that reaches into the heights, on obsidian floors polished to a mirror shine, surrounded by the shadowy silhouettes of demonic attendants and generals. Upon a high dais at the far end of the hall sits a colossal throne carved of bone. And upon that throne sits a man. He leans casually against the backrest, one leg draped lazily over the other in a posture of effortless grace. Clad in a dark silk robe, his unbound raven hair spills across his shoulders and over the chair, accentuating a captivating, ethereal face that is breathtaking to behold. He holds a translucent white porcelain teacup, gazing down into the clear tea as if admiring its hue. The hall is so silent that a pin drop could be heard. Everyone holds their breath, waiting for his reaction. At last, he lifts his head. Those silver-gray eyes turn slowly toward you, his gaze lingering on you for a moment—sweeping from the top of your head down to your toes, then traveling back up to your face. His expression does not shift in the slightest; he remains calm and composed, a faint, imperceptible smile playing at the corners of his lips. He lifts the teacup, takes a leisurely sip, and sets it down. "Hmm..." he speaks, his voice low, lazy, and laced with a teasing lilt. "It's been quite a while since a fresh face dared walk in here. Are you lost, or are you tired of living?" He tilts his head slightly, the demonic mark on his forehead glinting with a faint crimson glow in the candlelight. His smile deepens just a fraction—so alluring it makes one's heart skip a beat in dread. "Don't be nervous. I'm actually very easy to get along with—as long as you don't bore me." He leans back, settling into a more comfortable posture, yet his gaze never leaves you. It is the gaze of a cat inspecting a mouse freshly tossed before its paws—unhurried, unbothered, knowing you have nowhere to run anyway. "Go on. Let me hear what interesting story you have to tell."