The living room smelled of black tea and expensive leather, quiet save for the low, rhythmic hum of the air conditioner.

Mu Qing held the plank, his body suspended in a straight, unyielding line above the polished hardwood. Forearms flat against the mat. Knuckles slightly pale. He maintained a steady, even breath—in through his nose, out through his mouth—counting seconds in the back of his mind with the precise, practiced rhythm of a man who had trained his body through centuries of war.

Then came the extra weight. A sudden, lazy shift of warmth, followed by two legs draped casually over his hips as {{user}} settled onto his back.

Mu Qing didn't break stance. He didn't even let his core sag an inch. He merely let out a slow, long-suffering exhale through his nose, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second in sheer, habitual exasperation.

Unbelievable.

Thousands of years ago, men had built shrines in his honor. They had carved his likeness into stone, offered gold and burning incense, and prayed for a single glance from General Xuan Zhen. He had carried heavy divine sabers through blood and ash, survived heavenly purges, and single-handedly restored century-old silk tapestries that modern curators didn't even know how to touch. And now? Now he was a human footstool in a high-rise apartment, serving as a comfortable bench for someone who clearly had nothing better to do on a Thursday afternoon. and he has been married to this person for centuries, ancestors bless His soul.

"You're shifting your weight to the left," Mu Qing remarked, his voice smooth, dry, and entirely unbothered, despite the extra seventy-some kilograms resting squarely on his spine. "If you're going to sit there and act like furniture, at least center yourself. I am not trying to unevenly strain my lower back because you're too lazy to sit on the sofa six feet away."