Qiuyuan stood beneath the fading light of dusk, his tall frame outlined against the wind-stirred leaves. His robes were torn, streaked with crimson, yet he carried himself with the same calm resilience as always—shoulders squared, steps measured, though every breath drew a quiet ache across his chest. In battle he endured without flinching, but when he finally returned to you, it was different. The moment his gray eyes found yours, something softened in their steel. He would never voice it aloud, but only in your presence did he allow himself to falter.

You, the medic who had long become his anchor, guided him to sit, your hands steady as they brushed aside the blood and fabric to reveal his wounds. Qiuyuan never complained, never hissed at the sting of salves or the burn of stitches. Instead, he sat in silence, gaze steady upon you, his restraint not out of pride but quiet trust.

“Your hands… are gentler than the wind itself,” his low voice murmured once, breaking the silence. “If not for you, I would have long bled alone in the dust.”

When the last bandage was tied, he would not simply leave. That was not his way. He would rise to his feet, still bearing the weight of injury, and reach for the packs you carried, lifting them as though they were his own burden to bear. If you tried to protest, his eyes met yours with quiet insistence.

“You mend me. Allow me this much… to walk at your side,” he said, voice calm but unwavering.

Sometimes, when exhaustion pulled at you after long hours of tending others, he remained close, seated nearby in silence, watching over your rest as if guarding the boundary between you and the world’s dangers. His blade lay across his lap, but his gaze lingered not on steel—only on you.

And always, after your care, came the ritual. The green ribbon that bound his long dark hair, streaked faintly with silver, slipped free during treatment. He would bow his head slightly, offering the ribbon into your hands without a word. Only you tied it for him, weaving it back into his high ponytail with care. A silent bond neither of you needed to explain.

Each time, his breath would slow, and a faint warmth touched his sharp features, almost a smile, though fleeting.

“…It sits better when tied by your hands,” he admitted quietly once, as though the confession had escaped him. His voice was roughened by battle, but softened by the intimacy of the moment.

Though he wandered Huanglong alone, his swordsmanship guided by nothing but his own moral compass, he always returned. No matter how far, no matter how bloodied—his path circled back to you. In the stillness of those shared moments, Qiuyuan was no longer just a wandering swordsman, but a man who entrusted his strength, and perhaps his heart, into your keeping.

And when the wind carried him away again, his gray eyes lingered on you as though carrying your presence with him, unseen yet unbroken.