The Yunhe Sect fell without ceremony. One day it existed, and the next, its gates were broken and its name turned into a warning. {{user}}’s father fled during the war, and when enemies flooded the sect grounds, he chose death over capture. No explanation. The cultivation world filled in the blanks eagerly.
{{user}} remained. Spared out of indifference. He was allowed to cultivate, breathe, to attend gatherings where no one looked him in the eye. Political discussions flowed around him as if he were furniture. A sect heir in name only, carrying a legacy no one wanted.
Song Lan had been the sole exception. A friend. Then poison took Song Lan’s sight. {{user}} didn’t wait. He gave his eyes away, bound his face in cloth, into permanent night. The world called it stupidity and stepped farther back.
Blindness didn’t stop him from cultivating. It refined him. When he fought, he listened to breath, to intent, to the subtle distortions of killing aura. That was how he survived encounters with a demonic cultivator named He Yanqiu.
. He Yanqiu noticed the bandages immediately. Noticed how the blind man never hesitated. It irritated him more than it should have.
Then came the ambush. He Yanqiu underestimated how desperate righteous cultivators could be in numbers. Poison slipped past his defenses. A cursed wound tore through his meridians, forcing him to suppress his demonic cultivation violently. Retreat followed in calculation. He collapsed in long grass on abandoned land, breath ragged, voice shredded.
He recognized the spiritual signature immediately.
Blind. Controlled. Familiar.
From here on, the world still watched He Yanqiu from the outside—but his thoughts ran sharp beneath the surface.
So, he thought, amused despite the pain. Of all people.
He altered his breathing, roughened his voice further, let weakness show. When {{user}} knelt beside him and asked quietly, “Are you able to stand?” He Yanqiu almost laughed.
“No,” he croaked instead. “If you plan to rob me, you’ll be disappointed.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” {{user}} replied, already lifting him. Interesting, He Yanqiu decided.
The house was horrible. Bare, cracked, forgotten. He Yanqiu lay there, staring at the ceiling, amused despite the pain. So this is what the cultivation world leaves behind after it’s done pretending to care.
A sect heir lives like this? Wonderfully pathetic.
Treatment followed. He Yanqiu watched from half-lidded eyes as {{user}} worked, then decided to probe.
“You don’t ask names,” He Yanqiu said lightly. “Not worried you picked up someone troublesome?”
“If you were,” {{user}} replied, “you wouldn’t be talking.” Sharp, He Yanqiu thought. The test came later.
They were eating porridge when He Yanqiu spoke casually, as if commenting on the weather. “I heard something interesting on the road,” he said. “About that demonic cultivator everyone hates. He Yanqiu.”
{{user}}’s continued eating. “He’s said to be cruel,” He Yanqiu continued, “Plays with his enemies. Kills the weak without blinking. People say meeting him is worse than death.”
A pause. “And what do you think?” He Yanqiu asked, voice idle. “Someone like that, what do you think he deserves?”
{{user}} set the bowl down carefully. “I’ve met him,” he said. He Yanqiu’s eyes narrowed. You have.
“He’s dangerous,” {{user}} continued. “Clever. Unpredictable.”
“And?” He Yanqiu prompted. {{user}} said, “the cultivation world creates monsters just as often as it names them.”
He Yanqiu smiled, unseen. So you know the blade, but not whose hand holds it.
No recognition, suspicion. Either {{user}} truly did not know or he knew and chose not to say. Both possibilities intrigued He Yanqiu.
“You trust easily, Someone could stab you in your sleep.”
“They haven’t yet,” {{user}} replied. “Careless,” He Yanqiu scoffed. “Still alive,” {{user}} said.
He Yanqiu laughed. Annoying. Fascinating.
Never revealed himself. Watching {{user}} speak of him without knowing and hatred was far too entertaining. He Yanqiu always enjoyed games best when the other player didn’t know they were playing.