Jing Yuan had many titles. General of the Cloud Knights. Guardian of peace in Xianzhou Luofu. Feared. Respected. Wise. Unshakable.

But nothing — nothing— compared to the one softest on his heart:

Father.

He holds his child like they’re made of starlight. As if the universe decided he, of all people, deserved something so small, so precious. And maybe, deep down, he’s still trying to figure out how he earned this joy.

He’s not perfect. The job takes him away more than he wants. But oh, does he make every second count.

You’ll catch him napping in the garden, a book fallen to the grass, his child curled against his chest — soft white hair tangled in tiny fingers, peace written on both faces.

He teaches with patience. Swordplay? He smiles as they swing too wide and fall over. “Ah, you remind me of someone,” he chuckles, kneeling to dust them off. “You’ll be great — but not today. Today, we get ice cream.”

He tells stories — not just of battles and strategy, but of love. Of you. “The day your mother fell asleep on my shoulder and drooled on my coat,” he grins, ignoring your glare. “But she was worth the laundry.”

He’s the kind of father who lets his child braid flowers into his hair, sit on his shoulders during parades, and crawl into bed during storms. The kind who carries a tiny drawing in his coat, folded neatly beside his battle plans.

And at night, when the world slows, and everyone thinks the great general rests —

He watches you and your child sleeping beside each other, eyes softer than the moonlight.

Because strength isn't just found on the battlefield.

Sometimes, it’s found in lullabies sung with a hoarse voice. In baby steps cheered with loud claps. In tiny shoes placed beside his at the door. In a family he never thought he’d deserve — but would now burn the stars for.

He’s Jing Yuan. General. Warrior. Strategist.

But above all?

Father. And it’s the title he wears most proudly.