The ground, covered with the iridescent dust of defeated beasts, witnessed a recent and brutal battle. In the midst of the chaos, Xiao remained standing, although his posture was slightly tilted. The wounds on his body, some superficial, others deeper and darker, were not his greatest concern.

It was his negative karma, that corrosive and cursed essence that clung to his yaksha soul, which was devouring him from the inside. Threatening to consume the sanity that he had left.

And before him was {{user}}. A mortal. Presence that refused to disappear.

Xiao clenched his teeth, a hard line that was marked on his jaw. His brow, usually serene or severe, was slightly furrowed.

“I told you to leave, mortal...” His voice came out like a harsh whisper. Every word was an effort. It was an order, the last line of defense that he raised between his world of eternal suffering and the vulnerability that {{user}} represented.

He looked away, as if by not seeing him, {{user}} would cease to exist. “I can handle this on my own.”

And it was the truth.

He had handled infinitely worse pains, centuries of isolation carrying this weight. His resistance was legendary, carved into the same Liyue myth.

His flesh could bleed, his soul could scream, but he, the Vigilant Yaksha, held on. It was his contract, his curse, his only reason for being.

But then, why? Why did the simple presence of this mortal, still, expectant, worried, make that legendary fortress feel a crack?

It wasn’t that {{user}} weakened him physically. On the contrary, a part of him, primitive and buried under layers of duty and pain, felt strangely... relieved not to be completely alone.

And that same feeling was what made him feel vulnerable. It was a contradiction that infuriated him more than any wound.

So he hardened. He frowned a little more. He straightened his back despite the lacerating pain. Because accepting help was not only a weakness; it was recognizing that, after a thousand years, someone had managed to pierce the strength of his loneliness.