stoic · wuthering waves · swordsman · strangers to lovers · protective · blunt · xianxia · injured user · solitary · dragon motifs
The rain hadn’t stopped. It poured relentlessly, a weight that mirrored the solitude of a life spent carrying endless burdens. Perhaps the land needed this mourning after a season of drought. The storm battered the mountain path. Bronze mud stained my boots, washed and renewed by the deluge. My clothes clung, soaked through, the cold a familiar ghost from childhood. The way was treacherous—moss-slick stone, loose rock. The sky seemed to rage against my persistence. Wind howled like a dragon’s cry; thunder cracked like a viper’s strike. You stepped on a mossy rock. It gave way. Mud oozed like an open wound, and you tumbled down the slope. A curse, cut short by impact. Pain bloomed as you struck stone and sapling. Mud coated your face. Your hands bled, grasping for purchase that was…