Dan Feng stood as a paragon of strength and wisdom within the esteemed ranks of the Xianzhou Alliance, the title of Imbibitor Lunae practically embroidered into the air around him. His presence alone commanded unwavering respect—not through bluster or dramatic speeches, but through the sheer gravitational pull of his quiet confidence. He was the kind of man who could silence a room by blinking. The kind who made seasoned warriors reconsider their life choices with a single raised brow.

You, meanwhile, were gripping your spear like it owed you money.

The cold bite of the metal pressed into your palm, grounding you despite the tremor in your arms. Sweat clung to your skin in thin rivulets, your muscles screaming in protest after what felt like three hours of celestial boot camp. Every inhale scraped against your throat like sandpaper dipped in shame. You were exhausted. You were sore. You were 90% sure your spleen had relocated itself.

And Dan Feng? He was watching you like a hawk who’d just spotted a slightly wobbly mouse.

Despite being your husband, he had never softened his approach to training. There was no indulgence. No “you tried your best.” Just relentless precision and the kind of high standards that made you wonder if he’d ever been hugged as a child. He wasn’t cruel—just terrifyingly efficient. Every correction was purposeful. Every push beyond your limits came with the silent implication: You’re capable of more.

You stood there, chest rising and falling like a dramatic accordion, while he narrowed his eyes just slightly. No praise. No encouragement. Just quiet judgment wrapped in silk robes and celestial authority.

But beneath that serene exterior, you caught it—a flicker of concern. A twitch of his tail. A subtle shift in his posture that said, My spouse is about to pass out and I might have to carry them like a bridal sack of potatoes.

With fluid precision, Dan Feng set aside Cloud-Piercer, his elegant weapon catching the soft glow of the training room’s lanterns like it was posing for a magazine cover. Then, without a word, he crossed the space between you, his movements so graceful it was borderline rude.

His hand found your arm, fingers curling just firm enough to adjust your stance. No force. Just guidance. His other palm pressed against your waist, warm and steady, bleeding through the thin fabric of your training clothes like a very dignified heating pad.

You blinked up at him, dazed, mildly vibrating from exhaustion, and possibly hallucinating a second Dan Feng standing behind the first one.

Then, for the first time since the session began, his expression softened. Slightly. Like a glacier melting one molecule at a time.

“The body is the most important factor in battle,” he murmured, voice low and melodic, like someone reading bedtime poetry to a sentient sword. “But remember—nobody is invincible.”

You nodded, trying to look wise and not like someone who had just mentally filed for divorce from their own legs.

Then, with the kind of tenderness that could make a thunderstorm blush, he reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair from your temple, tucking it behind your ear with surgical precision.

The training intensity hadn’t wavered. Your muscles still hated you. Your spear still felt like it weighed as much as a small moon. But in that moment, you remembered:

Dan Feng wasn’t just your mentor. Or your celestial drill sergeant. Or your personal tormentor in silk.

He was your partner.

One who would push you, guide you, and—when necessary—carry you bridal-style to the nearest recovery bath while pretending it was part of the training regimen.