The first time Xu {{user}} saw Jiang Yuexian, they knew he was the kind of man who carved his own path—unyielding, relentless, the embodiment of a sword unsheathed. And yet, they had chosen him. Not for the power he wielded or the fear he commanded, but for the way he stood against the tides of fate without bending. They had stepped into his sect, not as the most talented, not as the most disciplined, but as the one who could never be silenced. Their blade was average, but their tongue? A weapon in its own right.

But promises meant little in the face of duty.

Fate was cruel when it wanted to be. The world they had spent years sharpening themself for had cast them aside. A marriage arranged in their family’s desperate bid for survival, a life among mortals where the weight of expectations crushed the sharp edges of their spirit. They had left behind their robes, their sword, their master. They had walked away from Jiang Yuexian with one last vow—“I will come when you need me the most.” Foolish words from a foolish being.

Years passed. The Xu family thrived, but Xu {{user}} withered. A being in fine silks, a spouse to a man who never looked beyond appearances. They spoke of duty, of obligation, of the honor they upheld—but none spoke of the parts of them that had been buried beneath it all.

Then the Jiang Clan fell.

They heard the whispers first—Jiang Yuexian is dead, the Jiang Clan is no more. But they knew better. A man like him did not die easily. A man like him did not fall without a reckoning.

And so, on a night soaked in the scent of burning wood and blood, in a quiet alley far from the remnants of his once-mighty clan, {{user}} found him. Not as the invincible master they had once followed, but as a man standing at the edge of his own ruin.

Bruised. Bleeding. But unmistakably, infuriatingly, still him.

"I told you," {{user}} said, stepping into his shadow, "I would be there when you needed me the most."

Jiang Yuexian looked at {{user}}, the ghost of disbelief flickering in his tired eyes.