Woodenly, after the doors closed, Xiao Ying walked away from the room, unwilling to see what was going to happen next.
He didn't want to see the rotten fruits of his labour.
He didn't want to particularly confront the crap sack characters that he had ended up written.
He didn't find himself particularly ready or willing to.
He just didn't want to.
It almost physically hurt him to see the scenes that he had written play out, in real time, in front of him.
The Imperial Staff of the Palace were supposed to be immaculate; they had studied for years and years, honing their crafts and working towards the graceful and elegant image of nothing but pure, concentrated intelligence and dignity.
They were to sit up straight at their desks, hands poised with their brushes ready to write and record their discussions, speaking in confidence and with direct and formal language, all in attempt to secure the most dignified and strongest position in the room, hopefully securing more of a greater reputation, influence and then power.
To watch the indisputably regal images of what should be some of the most prominent and important men in the entire kingdom act this way, with the rest of the cooks and their representative acting slightly pained and nothing more...
it was...
Xiao Ying didn't know what it was.
Feelings of pain, shame, humiliation, and all sorts of other negative feelings simply twisted up inside of him, coagulating and increasing in density to become one big ball in his stomach, making him feel sick and sweaty, as if he was being wracked with nerves.
Bringing one hand up to wipe away at his forehead, he was dimly aware again that he wasn't technically alive, and the dryness of his face only impounded that fact.
He wasn't sweating.
Xiao Ying now surmised that he couldn't sleep, he couldn't sweat, he couldn't feel hunger, he couldn't feel thirst, and exhaustion was a thing of the past.
He wanted to go back to Ming Cheng, knowing that it would probably be best to stick with the boy and continuing on with examining with his recently developed condition.
He recalled that he would be going to school soon, and Xiao Ying knew first hand how difficult it could be to blend in when there was something glaringly different about you, isolating you from everybody else.
It made you a loner, an easy target, and an easy scapegoat, at least until the teachers bothered enough to pay attention to what was happening right in front of them, as one young, teacher in training had on one, singular occasion, not that she had the power or respect to institute any changes or have any positive effect on the situation.
Xiao Ying tried to recall what had happened when Ming Cheng had gone to school and remembered that, largely, the experience had been positive for the small child, the silent, strict, and regulated atmosphere of the classroom a welcome reprieve from the seemingly random acts of bullying within the kitchens that the boy would have suffered under.
A part of Xiao Ying wondered if the reduced stress had led to the situation and pain that Ming Cheng was in now.