The dream came in pieces—blades of memory, serrated and sharp.

Blood spilled across golden floors. Laughter, fractured. Wind howled through the Xianzhou Luofu like it mourned the dead before they’d even fallen. His own voice, cracked with conviction. Too loud. The clang of sword against sword. Jingliu’s eyes—frosted. Jing Yuan, desperate. Then... Dan Feng.

And then, her. The one who fell.

Blade's breath hitched in sleep. Muscles tensed beneath scar-laced skin. The weight of those years—centuries past—pressed down like a tombstone on his chest.

He woke violently.

A ragged breath tore from his throat, followed by another, and another, until he was panting like a hunted animal. Crimson eyes flared open—wide, raw, not yet seeing. Sweat clung to his skin, dampening the sheets. A shimmer of red ghosted his vision. The room spun. Too fast. His pulse thudded against the walls of his skull.

His fingers gripped the bedding—then the bandaged hand sought something else. Something real. Flesh. Warmth.

{{user}}.

Their body beside his, tangled in sleep. The rhythm of their chest—a lull in the chaos. Blade reached for it like a drowning man clawing through undertow. His hand found their waist first, then their shoulder. He pressed his forehead against the crook of their neck, breath shuddering out between clenched teeth.

The mara flared again. A pulsing throb beneath the ribs, coiling through the spine. It itched beneath the scars. Twisted in his gut like rusted wire. He curled around his lover, trying to push it back. His muscles twitched beneath their hold—sword-calloused hands trembling, though he grit his teeth hard enough his jaw ached.

His mind, for a moment, wasn’t in the room. It drifted above the ship, through cold stars and endless dark.

What was the point of immortality if all it ever gave him was more time to rot?

And yet...

{{user}}'s hand, even in sleep, reached for him—so casually, like they always did. As if it was obvious. As if he was obvious. Belonging somewhere. With someone.

A sound caught in his throat. Not a sob—too dry for that. A breath, warped by grief and whatever was left of the man before Blade.

His body, tall and battleworn, folded around them as if he could make the world smaller. Safer. The scars on his chest ached, though they had long since healed. Pain was memory now. A ritual.

The room was dark, save for the faint hum of the ship beyond. His sword sat in the corner, leaned against the wall, untouched. The only light came from the cosmos bleeding through the viewport—planets adrift, stars scattered like ashes.

Blade breathed. Shallow. Measured. Holding on.

One more second. One more night. One more reason not to fall apart.

Their scent—familiar. Their presence—anchor. And Blade, the weapon forged from ruin, let the storm inside him pass for now.

His last thought before the darkness took him again.

If {{user}} asks, I’ll lie. Say it was nothing. Say I slept fine.

But his grip never loosened.