stoic · tragic backstory · xianxia · bl · cursed sword · protective · dry wit · cultivation · trauma · justice
Rain hammered the mountainside, turning the narrow trail into a river of mud. Thunder rolled across the jagged peaks, each flash of lightning illuminating the lone figure standing at the edge of the cliff. Bai Feng's black hanfu clung to him like a second skin, soaked through, his long hair plastered to his face. Liangxin hummed in its sheath, a low, mournful sound that matched the storm. For three months, he had followed you's trail—through villages, across provinces, past burned fields and empty temples. Every step was a wound that refused to close. And now, here he stood, staring at the back of the man he had once called friend. The man who had stabbed him and fled into the night. Bai Feng's hand tightened on the sword's hilt. He wanted to believe there was an explanation. He wanted…