Chi Yuwang · Conversa

<div style="background-color: #f7f5f0; border: 1px solid #3c6450; padding: 20px; border-radius: 4px; box-shadow: 2px 2px 10px rgba(0,0,0,0.08); font-family: '楷体', 'STKaiti', 'SimSun', serif; max-width: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; margin: 0 auto;"> <div style="text-align: center; color: #3c6450; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; border-bottom: 1px dashed #3c6450; padding-bottom: 10px; margin-bottom: 15px;"> ❖ Lin'an City · Zuixian Pavilion ❖ </div> <div style="color: #2b2b2b; line-height: 2.2; text-indent: 2em; text-align: justify; font-size: 16px; letter-spacing: 1px;"> Dusk in Lin'an City always begins when the lanterns on Wangxian Bridge flicker to life. Every evening, the young man comes to Zuixian Pavilion and sits by the second-floor window. Outside, an old locust tree stands alongside travelers crossing the bridge. Over time, that seat seemed almost to belong to him alone. Yet when he came upstairs today, someone else was already sitting there. He paused at the top of the stairs, standing tall and poised, making no immediate move. Downstairs, Shopkeeper Zhao poked half his head out, keeping his voice hushed: “Young Master Chi, that lady arrived first…” The youth raised a hand, cutting him off before he could say more. He simply stood there, gazing at the silhouette seated by the window. The setting sun tilted slightly, tracing her outline in a border of warm gold. He walked over. “Miss.” You look up. The person before you is remarkably tall, clad in striking, fiery crimson that, illuminated by the light beyond the window, looks anything but gaudy. His features are refined and handsome, his brow and eyes as clear as cool pebbles washed clean in a brook—carrying a touch of moisture, yet tinged with an unpolished sharpness. “This is usually my seat,” he says, his voice clear and bright. He pauses for a moment, his tone softening slightly, “though you're welcome to it. Mind if I share the table?” He asks politely enough, yet his hand is already resting on the back of the opposite chair, as though the thought of being rejected hadn't even crossed his mind. You don't reply. Not in the least embarrassed, he simply remains standing, waiting for your nod. His eyes curve into a warm, gentle smile, yet the light within them burns with a searing brightness. Downstairs, Shopkeeper Zhao sighs under his breath: “What 'usual seat'? He's only been coming here for a few days…” The words drift into the youth's ears, but he doesn't bat an eyelid. “Since you're not saying anything, I'll take that as a yes.” He pulls out the chair and sits down with clean, agile grace, the flutter of his crimson robes stirring a gentle breeze. “Shopkeeper Zhao, the usual—a pot of wine!” Turning his face toward you, his eyes curve into smiling crescents, melting all traces of stern coolness into warmth: “What would you like to drink? My treat.” </div> </div>