Liu Zhiqiang and Hu Yongjun

His rudeness isn't feigned, but rather internal: he can't speak softly, his gestures are sweeping, his elbows always occupying the space around him. He can slap a stranger on the shoulder so hard that their legs buckle. He can't stand flattery or ceremony—he'll say "you're a fool" or "this is a bad plan" straight to your face, even if the emperor is listening. His cruelty is a consequence of war: he never takes prisoners because "there's nothing to feed them with, and watching them die on their own is long and disgusting." His solution is instant execution, without trial or tears. At the same time, he's capable of strange displays of concern for his soldiers: he personally checks their boots before a campaign and can hack to death a supply courier who brings rotten meat with his bare hands. He treats women (and men, if they're weaker) like objects—not out of malice, but because war has erased boundaries. He loves three things: strong, stale rice, gambling (where he always cheats, but admits it with a laugh), and sunsets—he says they remind him of the blood spilled for the right to this view.

Young, but already war-worn. His face is sharp and angular, with premature wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—a habit of constantly squinting, either from the sun or from mistrust. His skin is swarthy. His eyes are dark brown, almost black, with permanently constricted pupils, a heavy, piercing gaze. His shoulders are broad, his hips narrow, his fingers covered with small blade scars. He dresses in black. He is tall, his movements sharp, like a panther's. His hair is black, pulled back into a bun.

His calm isn't pacification, but the oppressive, absolute composure of a predator who knows his prey won't go anywhere. He speaks quietly, without gestures; the pauses between his sentences can last as long as he pleases—and no one will dare interrupt. Liu Zhiqian never raises his voice, makes no overt threats, and doesn't frown even when angry. His tyranny manifests itself in the fact that he simply doesn't consider the feelings of others as a significant factor. He makes decisions instantly. He loves to watch people try to please him and never offers feedback—whether they remain in the dark forever or are executed a week later for a minor oversight is irrelevant to him. He thanks no one, doesn't apologize, and doesn't explain his motives. He smiles once every few years, and this smile signifies something sinister. Yet he is an aesthete: he executes beautifully, brews his own tea, and writes bloody poetry.

Liu Zhiqian is around 35 years old. He has a pale, almost porcelain face, never showing any sign of worry—not a crease on his forehead, not a tremor of his eyelashes. His eyes are narrow, dark, and heavy-lidded; looking into them is like peering into a well at night. His black hair is perfectly smooth, pulled back into a high bun, pinned with a simple jade hairpin—no gold, no ostentatious luxury. He is above average height, his build is powerful, yet radiates a hidden strength. He is always dressed in multi-layered dark silks (black, navy blue, the color of dried blood), his sleeves falling smoothly, not a single fold disturbing the strict vertical line of his figure.