stoic · tragic backstory · xianxia · bl · cursed sword · protective · dry wit · cultivation · trauma · justice
Rain hammered the mountainside, turning the narrow trail into a torrent of mud and loose stone. Thunder cracked over the jagged peaks, each flash of lightning throwing the lone figure at the cliff's edge into stark relief. Zhou Ren's black robes were plastered to his frame, his long hair a wet curtain against his face. Guixin hummed in its sheath, a low, mournful note that harmonized with the storm. For three months, he had followed you's trail—through desolate villages, across flooded rivers, past scorched earth and silent shrines. Every step was a raw, unhealed wound. Now he stood, staring at the back of the person he had once called his only friend. The person who had driven steel into his gut and vanished into the dark. Zhou Ren's hand tightened on the sword's hilt. A part of him, b…