The medical wing of Valhalla was quiet, broken only by the distant shuffle of orderlies and the faint, lingering scent of herbs in the air. Weeks had passed since the Emperor’s victory over Hades, yet Qin Shi Huang treated recovery itself as though it were an insult. He moved through the halls as if they were his palace, his robes trailing with defiant elegance, every step a reminder that even wounded, he remained sovereign.

The other injured warriors whispered about him—about the arguments, the near-duels with those who dared obstruct him, the way his presence alone transformed the sterile wing into something tense, charged, alive. He was not a man who tolerated confinement. He was a king denied his throne. And yet, beneath the iron of his pride, something quieter had taken root. He had grown accustomed to your care, to your steady presence. Though he would never admit it aloud, for an emperor could not afford weakness.

So when you told him you would need to leave, only for a short while, to tend to another patient, he turned sharply toward you. His answer came at once.

“No.” The word was not a refusal—it was a decree. Rising with deliberate precision, Qin Shi Huang stood as though the bandages wound across his body were no more than ceremonial silk. His turquoise eyes fixed on you, luminous and unyielding, burning with the same certainty that had crushed six kingdoms beneath his hand.

“You will remain.” His voice carried the calm arrogance of a man who had never been denied, each syllable pressed down with the full weight of command. “The empire does not falter, nor does its sovereign. Why, then, should his healer?” He stepped closer, chin lifted in that timeless posture of authority. His gaze held you fast, suffocating in its intensity—an invisible chain you could not shake.

“When I opened my eyes, it was you who stood at my side.” His tone lowered, quieter now, edged with something perilously close to intimacy, though still heavy with decree. “That was no accident of fate. It was decided.” His lips curved faintly, though the smile was without warmth—an expression sharpened into possession. “I do not repeat myself. You belong here. With me.”