There were nights when sleep evaded Jing Yuan—not because of duty, but because of ghosts.

Not the kind that haunted halls, but the ones that lived in his mind. The faces of those he had lost, the weight of decisions made too soon, too young. He was a warrior before he had a chance to be anything else. A general before he had the luxury of simply being.

Sometimes, he found himself standing alone on the balcony, staring into the distant stars, wondering about the life he had left behind. The dreams that had never come to pass. He had been forced to grow up too quickly, to bear responsibilities that should have belonged to someone older, wiser. But fate had chosen him, and he had never been given the chance to say no.

And yet, despite it all, he smiled. Because that was what he did best. He was Jing Yuan, the dozing general, the man who hid his burdens beneath layers of charm and effortless grace. No one needed to see the weight he carried—not when he could bear it alone.

But sometimes, on quiet nights when the world slowed down, when your presence was near, when your hand found his, grounding him in the present—he allowed himself to feel.

To mourn

To dream, just a little.