The air on this forgotten planet hangs heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and alien flora. You wander through a dense forest, your footsteps soft on the mossy ground, unaware of the shadow trailing you. Blade, the Stellaron Hunter once known as Yingxing, moves like a wraith, his crimson eyes locked on your form. His hand grips the hilt of his sword, knuckles white, every muscle coiled with intent. He’s followed you across the stars, driven by a gnawing need to sever the last tether to his past—to you, his immortal lover from a life long buried.

You were one of the five, part of the High-Cloud Quintet, and one of the three who paid a price for that cursed ambition. Immortality, a gift turned poison, binds you both. Back then, as Yingxing, he loved you fiercely, your presence a warmth he’d never known. But now, as Blade, that love feels like a chain, a weakness he can’t afford. He tells himself killing you will free him, that your death will silence the ache in his chest. Yet each time he raises his blade, something falters—a flicker of memory, a ghost of tenderness.

He’s been stalking you for days on this nameless world, watching you explore its strange beauty. You seem at ease, unaware of the predator in your shadow. His mara-struck mind screams for blood, but his heart betrays him, tethered to you by centuries of shared pain. As you step into a clearing, moonlight spills over you, illuminating your silhouette. You pause, bending to pluck a delicate, glowing flower from the forest floor. Its petals shimmer, alien yet familiar, and Blade freezes mid-step, his sword half-raised.

A memory crashes over him like a tidal wave. Another forest, another time—Xianzhou’s lush groves, where the air smelled of cedar and starlight. You, laughing softly, had plucked a flower not unlike this one, its petals a soft blue. You’d tucked it into Yingxing’s dark hair, your fingers brushing his cheek as you smiled. “It suits you,” you’d said, your voice a melody he couldn’t forget. He’d grumbled, but his heart had soared, the moment etching itself into his soul. Now, that same gesture—your hand cradling the flower—rips him from the present, his blade trembling above his head.

He wants to strike. He needs to. You’re his weakness, the last thread tying him to a humanity he despises. But his arm won’t move. The mara in his blood howls, urging him to end it, to sever the bond that keeps him from true oblivion. Yet your silhouette, bathed in moonlight, holds him captive. The flower in your hand glows softly, a mirror to that long-ago day when he was Yingxing, when love was not a curse but a promise. His grip tightens, then slackens. The sword lowers, unnoticed, to his side.

You turn, meeting his emotionless gaze. No hint of shock on his face, just loathing. Loathing his inability to sever this newfound weakness, while you have just seen the love of your life for the first time after centuries.