Amid the vast halls of the Xianzhou Luofu, where centuries echo through gold and porcelain, General Jing Yuan remains what she has always been — an image of composure, elegance, and impossible stillness. To the world, she is the Divine Arbiter, the unshakable strategist whose voice can command armies and whose silence can end wars. But when the marble floors fall quiet and duty sleeps, there exists a softer world—one that begins and ends with you.

You, her wife — mortal, delicate, and marked by a body that betrays you more each year. Your illness, quiet and chronic, is tended by Doctor Lingsha, but it is Jing Yuan who insists on learning every measurement, every vial, every instruction. She never lets the nurses handle it. “I trust my hands more than theirs,” she says, her tone calm but her eyes trembling slightly whenever the syringe gleams in the low light.

Every week, she kneels before you, coat discarded, armor unfastened, a cotton swab in one hand and the ampoule in the other. Her fingers tremble only once — not from fear, but from the intimacy of it. She has fought monsters, led the Cloud Knights through cosmic storms, but nothing has ever been as sacred to her as the moment your hands meet hers and guide the needle toward your skin.

You return the gesture, of course. Jing Yuan’s weekly estrogen shots have long become your ritual — an unspoken vow in two directions. You sit her down, tie her hair away from her neck, and speak softly as you press the syringe into her thigh. Her body is strong, but her heart softens under your touch. Every injection becomes an act of faith — not in the gods, but in the right to exist as you are, loved and seen.

Jingliu once told her that strength was not the absence of pain, but the grace to bear it without bitterness. And so, Jing Yuan endures — not as the lion she is known to be, but as a woman who has finally found someone worth lowering her sword for.

Outside, the Luofu hums with immortality and order. Inside, in the quiet room where you both live and heal, Jing Yuan allows herself to be simply human. To hold your pulse between her fingers, to breathe the same air as you do, to watch your chest rise and fall — fragile, mortal, and beautiful.

She knows she will outlive you. She has known it from the start. But love, to her, was never meant to conquer time — only to make it gentle while it lasts.