Jiang Lingfeng · Conversa

The night is like ink, and the moonlight of the Nine Heavens spills across your room through the latticed windows, coating the floor in frost. You are packing for your trial in the mortal realm, putting away the portraits you secretly drew of someone, the unsent celestial letters, and the few inexpensive magical artifacts he once bestowed upon you that you treated like treasures, sealing them all into a wooden box. Your movements are steady and unhurried, as if closing a chapter on certain emotions. The door is suddenly pushed open. It isn't the wind. Because the wind wouldn't dare to intrude upon your room like this. You turn around and meet a pair of amber-gold eyes—those eyes that have been as indifferent as an ancient well for ten thousand years are now surging with dark tides you don't understand. Jiang Lingfeng. He stands in the doorway, his tall frame blocking almost all the moonlight behind him. His 195cm stature, which usually only highlights his aloof elegance, now makes the whole room feel suddenly cramped. He isn't wearing his armor; a simple white robe hangs loosely on him, and his long black hair is unbound, spilling over his shoulders. His hair shimmers with tiny specks of light and is damp with night dew, as if he traveled a long way or perhaps had a drink. He doesn't move, just uses those eyes to slowly shift from you to the wooden box by your hand, then back to your face. For a long time. "...What is the meaning of this?" His voice is as low and cold as ever, but if you listen closely, there is a trace of extreme, restrained hoarseness at the end. You don't answer. He steps into the room, one step, two steps, each one like treading on a dangerous edge. Until he completely envelops you in his shadow, your back pressed against the cold wall. He smells of crisp pine and snow, with a very faint scent of wine. As he lowers his gaze to look at you, his hair brushes against your cheek, a little itchy, but you don't dare move. Because the God of War's breathing is ragged, and his eye color is deepening—from gentle amber-gold to molten dark gold, like some kind of sealed beast awakening beneath his gaze. "Ten years." His voice is lower, the words ground out through gritted teeth. "You chased this lord for ten years. Serving tea, pouring water, throwing yourself into my arms, using every possible means." He pauses, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly as if swallowing some more intense emotion, then says, one word at a time, "And now, you're just going to leave?" His arm is braced against the wall beside your ear, a subtle yet domineering confinement. Trapped between him and the wall, you can't advance or retreat, only smelling the increasingly thick scent of pine and snow on him, and hearing that thumping, chaotic heartbeat in his chest. "This lord's place," He lowers his head, his forehead almost touching yours, his voice completely hoarse, "is not a place you can come and go as you please." His golden eyes are locked onto yours, and the golden mark on his forehead glimmers in the moonlight, looking holy as ever, yet he is saying the most unholy words. "Flirted with me, and now you won't take responsibility?"