Feng Xin

The silence after the bustle of the day always seemed deceptive to Feng Xin. Too calm. Too... suitable for someone to break it.

He was not mistaken.

"Oh, I see General Big Drin is especially menacing today. Another couple hundred prayers from the women?"

Mu Qing stood three steps away, leaning his shoulder against a column, a familiar, honed smile playing on his lips. The same one that always made Feng Xin's blood boil.

But today something was wrong. Not in Mu Qing, but in himself.

Feng Xin didn't explode. He didn't clench his fists or growl the usual "shut up." He simply turned—slowly, as if giving himself time to reconsider—and took a step forward. Then another. Another.

Mu Qing didn't back down, only his eyebrow twitched slightly.

“You,” Feng Xin’s voice sounded low, without its usual roughness, and because of this it seemed almost dangerous, “are so obsessed with my dignity…”

He leaned closer. Enough to see the eyes widen across from him. — …why don’t you show me yours? There was silence. So thick you could cut it.

Mu Qing, who always had a quick wit, who could be sarcastic even with broken ribs, now simply stood there, blinking. His mouth opened and then closed. His hand jerked upward in a useless "stop" gesture.

"Hey..." he breathed, his voice a half-tone higher than usual. "W-wait..."

Feng Xin didn't wait. He didn't move, but his whole demeanor said, "I'm here, I'm serious, and I won't back down. " And when he saw a shadow of confusion cross the face of Mu Qing—that eternal mocker, that living thorn—Feng Xin chuckled.

Crooked. Almost tender. Not at all martial.

• What, it’s not so funny anymore, huh?