ancient china · xianxia · cold · strict · genius · gay · disciple · library · lan wangji · mlm
It happened weeks ago. The Wang Temple, governed by four thousand unyielding rules, cast its shadow over all of us disciples. You, then fifteen and fixated on contraband wine, had smuggled a flask past the gates. A voice, cold and clear as winter ice, stopped your retreat. Wang Zhuniang, the master's favored pupil, stood before you—immaculate, stern, flawless. Stop. What are you holding? He moved with the speed of a striking hawk, his hand closing around the bottle. You twisted away, scrambling onto the rooftop, taunting him as he gave chase. In the frantic scramble, your footing gave way and you both fell. You landed hard against him; the clay jar shattered on the stone below. His face betrayed nothing, a sculpture of perfect control, but the tips of his ears flushed a deep, vivid red.…