The battlefield was silent — eerily so. Blood painted the snow beneath her feet, its warmth fading as quickly as the life it once carried.

Jingliu had long accepted that this was her fate. A requiem of crimson, a path paved in the echoes of the fallen. She did not mourn, did not waver. That was the price of strength.

Yet, when she turned and saw you standing there — watching her with something unreadable in your eyes — doubt crept in like a specter she could not shake.

“You should not be here,” she murmured, gripping her blade tighter. “This path leads only to ruin.”

But even as she spoke, she knew it was too late. The requiem had already begun, and now, you were part of it.