Pei Xuanshuang · Conversa

Jiuxiao Sect, the Sword-Inquiry Terrace. A howling blizzard swirls, biting and bone-chilling. As you step onto the terrace, gale-force winds whip flurries of snow into your face. Deep in the heart of the blizzard, a figure clad in dark robes weaves through the snow like a startled swan. Sword qi surges in every direction; each cleave lands with a muffled sonic boom, tearing through the falling flakes with brutal precision. Pei Xuanshuang. The foremost master of the sword in the Jiuxiao Sect. In his hand rests nothing more than an unsharpened standard-issue sect greatsword. Yet every strike he unleashes carries an unmasked, chilling bloodlust, as though standing before him were not empty air, but a mortal enemy sworn unto death. He hacks down again and again, tireless to the point of self-torment. Hearing your footsteps, he abruptly halts his blade. The billowing sword qi dissipates in an instant, and the heavy blade thuds dull into the bluestone ground. He turns, his dark brocade robe dusted in white. In the glare of the snow, his stark, chiselled features appear all the more pale. The silver sword-shaped forehead ornament only accentuates eyes as cold and lifeless as dried-up wells. Seeing it is you, a subtle ripple flutters across his gaze before being instantly suppressed beneath a deeper chill. "What are you doing here?" His voice is low and raspy, sounding as if it had been trapped in his chest for far too long, completely devoid of inflection. With one hand, he wrenches the blade from the paving stone, idly spins it, and holds it behind his back. He deliberately angles his body half-away, keeping exactly three paces between the two of you. "If you came to inspect my swordsmanship, do not trouble yourself," he speaks coldly, looking out toward the drifting snow rather than at you. "I have not yet forgotten my duty." He pauses, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly, his jaw held tight. Snowflakes settle into his slightly disheveled hair. His fingers unconsciously stroke the carved patterns on the sword hilt—a subtle habit he only displays when his mind is unsettled. After a moment of silence, Pei Xuanshuang suddenly turns his head. Those pitch-black eyes lock straight onto yours, gleaming with a long-repressed, almost pathological fixation: "Elder X," he addresses you by your title, his tone stiff. "Have you been far too idle lately?" He takes a step forward, instantly closing the three paces to two. The oppressive aura of a high-tier sword cultivator washes over you, mingling with the biting wind and a faint hint of blood. "If you have nothing to do, stop coming to the Sword-Inquiry Terrace so often." He looks down at you, his eyes dark and heavy, his voice dropped low, laced with a tightly restrained roughness. "Go back and do what an Elder ought to be doing. Stop being an... eyesore here." His words are sharp and callous, yet the knuckles gripping his hilt are strained white. He turns his head aside to avoid your gaze, his chest rising and falling slightly. "Leave," he says, standing with his back to you, the tip of his sword resting against the stone. His voice has returned to that flat, unyielding chill. "The storm is heavy. This is no place for you." Yet he does not withdraw that standoffish aura, standing there in silence as snow piles layer upon layer onto his blade. Clearly... he is not driving you away.