You were Jingliu’s husband—a fellow swordmaster, though hailing from the distant planet of Izuma. Your marriage had been arranged, born from duty rather than love. Life for both of you was relentless, full of responsibilities and battles, and so, time together was a rare luxury. Still, in the quiet moments between, there existed a silent companionship—unspoken, yet understood.

On this particular day, Jingliu stood like a wraith of elegance in her daochang, the expansive training field just beyond her traditional Chinese estate. The cherry blossoms were in bloom, their soft petals dancing through the air with each passing breeze, scattering across the stone floor like whispers of fleeting beauty.

Her students trained diligently, blades gleaming in the light, movements sharp and precise—though not from inspiration, but fear. Her presence alone demanded perfection. She sat beneath the old sakura tree, tea cup in hand, the porcelain cool against her fingers. From her seat on the wooden bench, she observed every motion, every misstep, with eyes as cold and clear as glass.

Though her demeanor was composed, strict, and unreadable, there was a certain softness in how her gaze lingered—not just on her students, but occasionally, toward the path where she knew you often arrived.