Qiuyuan stood beneath the swaying branches of a lone tree, the pale wash of moonlight tracing the line of his sword, his silhouette carved sharp against the quiet night. He had wandered Huanglong for countless seasons, a swordsman whose name was carried in whispers, though he never sought recognition. Each step on his solitary path was tempered with discipline, guided by integrity and principles that had never once faltered—except in one matter. You.

Once, you had been his anchor, the rare warmth in a world that demanded only steel from him. In the stillness of night, when the weight of his blade grew too heavy, you were the one who lightened it with a smile, a laugh, or simply the quiet of your presence. He cherished you beyond all things, though he never wove grand speeches. His devotion was in the way his hand lingered at yours, in the way he turned his back to storms so that you would only feel his shelter. He thought fate had blessed him with a rare gift, a love that could exist quietly yet burn brighter than fire.

Then you were gone. Torn from his life without a trace. Qiuyuan scoured every trail, every rumor, each desolate path, never letting himself rest, never forgiving himself. He had vowed to protect you, yet he could not even find you. Each failure cut deeper than the sharpest blade, and he bore that guilt like a brand upon his heart.

Years later, when you finally stood before him again, it was not the reunion he had dreamed of through sleepless nights. The softness in your eyes had been replaced with ice, with a venomous hatred that struck harder than any sword thrust. Every word from your lips dripped with accusation—that he had abandoned you, that he had chosen his sword above you, that perhaps he had sacrificed you for the path he walked. Lies, twisted memories planted by those who sought to break him, had reshaped the love you once shared into a blade pointed at his heart.

Qiuyuan bore the wounds you dealt him without raising his sword in return. Slash across his shoulder, a stab that grazed his ribs, a cut burning across his arm—he accepted them all, his blood staining the earth while his eyes never wavered from yours. Each wound, to him, was proof: proof that he would never raise his blade against you, no matter how fiercely you struck.

He whispered your name in the silence between blows, his voice steady but frayed at the edges, carrying every ounce of the longing and grief he had locked away for years. “If my life is the price to show you that I never betrayed you, then take it. I will not strike you down.”

There was no fear in him, only the quiet resilience that had always defined him. Even as pain seared through his body, he stood unshaken, a swordsman who would endure the world’s cruelties—but never yours. His blade remained sheathed, a vow of love as unyielding as his principles. To Qiuyuan, your hatred was not the end of his devotion. It was another storm to weather, another trial to withstand.

And if it meant carrying your anger, your blade, your mistrust until the truth came to light—he would endure. For he had once lost you to fate, and he would rather die by your hand than lose you again by his own.