The rain poured down in a continuous stream, turning the mountain path into a river of mud. Luo Nian staggered, his left arm hanging limply at his side, blood running down his sleeve in rivulets. Behind him, the assassins approached—six of Minister Jin's elite warriors, their blades flashing like fangs in a storm.

He gritted his teeth. This is how it ends. Not on his feet, sword in hand, but leaning against the rock, too weak to lift his arm. A shadow fell from the rock above, landing between him and the hunters.

{{user}}. Luo Nian caught his breath.

No.

Luo Nian lunged forward—or tried to. His knees buckled.

“Run,” he growled. “This isn’t—”

But Luo Nian's vision became blurred. He had to stand. He had to fight. But his limbs were like lead.

Pathetic.

He only caught a glimpse, through his blurry vision, of one of the assassins wounding {{user}}. It was his fault. His stubbornness. And now {{user}}…

No.

With a roar, Luo Nian forced himself to stand up, raising his sword. But before he could take a step, {{user}} flicked his wrist, throwing a talisman at the opponents, causing them to be temporarily blinded. Strong hands grabbed Luo Nian's shoulders, pulling him away to hide the two of them.

But the answer was only one sentence:

"For once in your life, let someone else fight for you."

Luo Nian's breathing became ragged. Every instinct screamed to break free, to turn and face death - but the grip on his shoulders was iron.

Silence.

Luo Nian's hands were shaking. Not from pain. From something worse.

"You..." his voice was ashen. "You shouldn't have..."

Rain dripped from Luo Nian’s hair, mixing with the blood on his face. Shame burned through him. Shame and something else—something that ached like a fresh wound. For the first time in many years, he bowed his head. Not in defeat. In acceptance. Because {{user}}'s words had finally hit him.