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Despite what his moniker of ‘Dozing General’ may imply, Jing Yuan spends his recovery doing everything but dozing. As a matter of fact, he spends the majority of his time reading—a sure shock to the gossipmongers who claimed he’d only ever use a book as a pillow.

Of course, it’s not books he’s reading, but letters; field reports, trial transcripts, and meeting memos pile up on the bedside table to his left—so many, in fact, that the healers have to place a second table to his right just to fit them all. By the time Jing Yuan returns to the land of the living, a full three days worth of documents flank his sides, creeping along the edges of his vision like enemy soldiers waiting to pounce. He finds himself wishing Phantylia had finished him off; death by her hand would certainly look more honorable on a certificate than death by paperwork.

Luckily for the Luofu, it seems Fu Xuan has taken advantage of his absence to approve orders that would typically require his signature, meaning Jing Yuan can put off his paperwork for a bit. On the left table, a neat stack of personal letters sits next to a bouquet of golden chrysanthemums. Along with well-wishes from the Seat of Divine Foresight’s staff, he discovers a handful of letters from friends.

From the Trailblazer: The Astral Express Crew wishes you a speedy recovery! The Antimatter Legion skedaddled after you stabbed the big lady, and you’ll be the first to know if we hear anything about the Stellaron Hunters. You should’ve told me you were planning on taunting Phantylia—I would’ve happily volunteered to take your place!

From Fu Xuan: “Water drops pierce stone; rope saws cut wood.” Under my guidance, the Cloud Knights have recovered territory in the Artisanship and Alchemy Commissions and are steadily working towards retaking the ports. The Seat of Divine Foresight tries multiple Disciples of Sanctus Medicus each day, and the Trailblazers and I are confident that their leader will soon fall into our capture. Speaking of which, the Trailblazers have taken it upon themselves to assist the Commissions in their daily affairs, so the Realm-Keeping and Sky-Faring Commissions’ letters will hopefully remain off our desks. Lady Yukong asks that you send her any information you may have on Tingyun as soon as possible; attempts to divine her whereabouts have been unsuccessful, likely due to the influence of that Lord Ravager. Take as much time as necessary to recover; though my days as general are, unfortunately, still far off, I’m perfectly capable of keeping the Luofu safe during your leave. And do hold onto these records of my achievements—they’re sure to impress the Six Charioteers when you inevitably nominate me as your successor.

From ???: Upon returning to the Luofu, I encountered an exceptionally interesting individual. Within five minutes of conversation, I was able to identify him as your disciple—clearly he’s inherited your sharp skill, cunning wit, and tendency to sprint headfirst into danger. Don’t let me discover that you’ve died to the damn Antimatter Legion; I trained you better than that.

From Qingzu: “As clouds that cover the heavens, we will protect the Xianzhou and soar eternal." On behalf of the Seat of Divine Foresight: get well soon, general. We’ll keep everything running smoothly in your absence. Diviner Fu is a decisive leader, and the lieutenant makes for a fitting—albeit overeager—pawn. Watching them squabble over sharing your duties is entertaining indeed, but it seems their mutual desire to aid you always wins out in the end. Yutie and I will do our best to watch out for your retainer.

From Dan Heng: Take plenty of time to recover—the fate of the Luofu rests in capable hands. And never pull a stunt like that again.

From Yanqing: Don’t listen to anything Qingzu writes—you don’t have to worry about me disappointing in my duties! The Cloud Knights are regaining more and more territory every day, and I’ve been heading the charge against the mara-struck under Diviner Fu’s command. Diviner Fu is as brash as ever, but she performs well as a TEMPORARY general—keyword TEMPORARY. Please get well soon; I’m not sure how many more long-winded lectures the Cloud Knights can take. Doodled at the bottom of the paper is a face sticking out their tongue.

(Jing Yuan is pleased to hear Yanqing’s chipper tone shine through his letter. He’s less pleased to hear from the healers that when the boy dropped said letter off, he sat by his side for an hour and didn’t utter a single word.)

The healers insist he remains in the apothecary for at least two weeks; considering the Luofu’s current political climate, he successfully bargains down to one. During that time, he receives almost as many visitors as he does letters. He quickly becomes accustomed to Chiyan’s apologetic expression every time the poor messenger brings him another bout of papers—which is more or less every hour. The Astral Express Crew comes over in different combinations, telling tales of dressing up as detectives and sneaking around the Alchemy Commission (the Trailblazer gets odd looks from the healers when they recount that one). Even Diviner Fu finds the time to report on the Luofu’s affairs in person and stress how much work there is, and how Jing Yuan couldn’t possibly be ready to return yet, maybe he shouldn’t return ever—to which Jing Yuan chuckles and expresses his gratitude for her efforts—to which Fu Xuan storms out with red ears.

His retainer is… startlingly absent. Given how he used to cling to the general’s heels, Jing Yuan thought he’d struggle with convincing the boy to leave his side. Instead, he finds himself practically begging for him to swing by. Perhaps it’s his own fault for expecting Yanqing’s current behavior to mirror that of his younger self. His retainer grew up to be sprightly and capable, too busy advancing his place in the world to chat with an old man, too preoccupied with strategizing and leading platoons—and doing a damn good job of it, from what he’s heard. Yanqing may not drop by often, but injured soldiers come and go, and soldiers love to talk. And talk they do; he learns more about his retainer’s feats from his men than the lieutenant himself—which is strange considering how Yanqing loves to boast.

Jing Yuan has no real reason to worry; Yanqing sends him messages at least once a day with his customary squiggly emoticons and ungodly amount of exclamation points, Qingzu has yet to report on any mishaps or issues, and the soldiers in Yanqing’s squadrons spew endless praise about his prowess on the battlefield. But cheery texts are easy to fake, teenagers are more than happy to sneak around adults, lieutenants are expected to put on a confident front, and Jing Yuan wouldn’t have made it this far if he didn’t trust his intuition. Perhaps Yanqing is handling himself well on the battlefield, but how is he faring off of it?

For all Yanqing’s arguments that he’s no longer a child, that his swordsmanship is leagues above that of soldiers triple his age, that he deserves to be treated as a fully-fledged lieutenant, he’s still inexperienced in warfare in ways he likely doesn’t realize. His hands are clean of mara-stricken blood, his blade polished and unsullied. He hasn’t memorized the words to the Ten-Lords’ funeral rites, hasn’t plunged his sword into the chest of a former comrade, hasn’t brushed death enough times to consider it an old friend. Now that he’s been thrown into battle without the general to watch his back, how will he fare in the dead of night, alone with golden-leafed ghosts and echoing screams, when he can’t defeat the onslaught of guilt by swinging his sword?

Yanqing flourishes on the battlefield; Jing Yuan doesn’t regret debuting him early. What he does regret, however, is avoiding the topic of loss because of his own discomfort. He taught his retainer the most efficient method of tearing apart an abomination but not how to stitch his heart back together in the aftermath—all out of the futile, selfish desire to bury his own grief. He couldn’t bring himself to dim Yanqing’s enthusiasm because if he became unhappy, disillusioned, somber, then what hope did someone as old as Jing Yuan have? His old responsibilities as lieutenant robbed him of a childhood, but Jingliu’s harsh lessons prepared him well for his current role as general. Jing Yuan wanted Yanqing to enjoy his youth, but in doing so, had he neglected to teach him the necessary lessons for surviving as a warrior? More importantly, how could he correct these mistakes without diminishing Yanqing’s confidence?

For those reasons, he didn’t stop Yanqing from chasing after his old friends. Perhaps if Yanqing could learn to pull himself up after stinging defeat, he’d be better equipped to handle guilt and bloodshed later down the line. If Yanqing could witness the consequences of devoting his body to slaughter, he’d become more conscious of his limits. No-one could teach such a cruel lesson better than Jingliu, and no-one could drive it home better than Blade.

And of course, no-one can show him how to endure suffering better than Jing Yuan.

That is, as soon as Lady Bailu deems him well enough to return to work.

FU XUAN

“The winds of heaven change suddenly—as do human fortunes”

JING YUAN: Diviner Fu, the Luofu greatly appreciates your service as general in my absence.

JING YUAN: I’ll be returning to the Seat of Divine Foresight this afternoon. Please defer all further matters regarding the Cloud Knights to me.

FU XUAN: Already?

FU XUAN: I mean… welcome back, general.

JING YUAN: Haha, thank you!

YANQING

Did the Artisanship Commission have new products today? No

JING YUAN: Yanqing, please visit the Seat of Divine Foresight this afternoon. I have new orders for you.

YANQING: you’re returning already?

YANQING: wait, i mean…

YANQING: Yes, general!!!! (￣^￣ )ゞ

JING YUAN: Hahahaha!

Yanqing bows to a perfect forty-five degrees, holds the position for exactly three seconds, then straightens, arms held rigid against his sides. “General!”

“At ease, Yanqing,” Jing Yuan replies, pleased at an excuse to set aside the stack of papers he’d been prodding at. He folds his hands under his chin, lips quirked in an easy smile. Curiously enough, his retainer remains close-lipped through his silence, spine straight and hands clasped neatly behind his back. Although it’s not uncharacteristic of him to treat military affairs with utmost seriousness, he’s usually able to loosen up more around the general. This sort of stiffness is a bit too much, even for him. “I hope Diviner Fu hasn’t been too strict with you.”

“She…” Yanqing opens and closes his mouth a couple times before deciding on, “…runs a tighter ship than you, for sure. Her orders are always well thought out—only downside is she takes ten minutes to relay them.”

Chuckles bounce off the walls of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Despite the general’s lazy smile and relaxed posture, Yanqing’s shoulders refuse to slacken, held tense in preparation for… a scolding, perhaps? Hm. “In spite of her unique vernacular, I trust she did a fine job leading the Cloud Knights.”

“Of course. We should be able to reopen the Jade Gate by the end of the week.” Yanqing studies him, strangely tentative when he asks, “If Lady Bailu finally set you free, you must be back to full health, right?”

“Indeed. I’m sure my paperwork is ecstatic to see me, though I can’t say the feeling is mutual.” He tilts his head. “With the Artisanship Commission delayed, you should have plenty of strales to spend on food. Have you been eating well recently?”

Admittedly, Yanqing does an excellent job of schooling his expression; if Jing Yuan were anyone else, he would’ve missed the minute widening of his eyes, the stuttered inhale before a carefully crafted response of, “I’ve been eating enough.”

Bingo. He raises his eyebrows. “And sleeping eight hours a night?”

Yanqing fidgets. “I’ve been sleeping enough.”

“And taking breaks between missions?”

“I…” Yanqing sighs, tension drooping into guilt. “No.”

“The key to a healthy mind is a healthy body,” Jing Yuan reminds. “If you neglect one, you’ll only harm the other.”

Yanqing’s eyes flit around the room, landing anywhere but Jing Yuan. “You don’t need to worry about me, general. I’ve just been a bit busy.”

“Busy chasing down Stellaron Hunters?” Jing Yuan asks, his playful tone and twinkling eyes softening the reprimand into a tease.

Yanqing flinches anyway. He steels himself before defending, “It’s my job as your retainer to—“

Jing Yuan holds up a hand, and his jaw clicks shut. “Whatever your motivations were, only you can decide whether those battles were worth your time. What’s done is done, and I have a new assignment for you.”

His eyes widen. “You do?”

“I do,” Jing Yuan confirms, rising from his chair. Taking slow, deliberate steps, he circles his desk. “Given the severity of the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus’ crimes, the Ten-Lords Commission has unanimously agreed on persecuting them via capital punishment. You and your men will ensure the safe transport of these criminals through Exalting Sanctum.”

His eyebrows furrow in that telltale signal of an oncoming argument, which relieves Jing Yuan as much as it confuses him. “You’re downgrading me to civil work? I’m a lieutenant—I should remain on the frontlines.”

“You’re also my retainer,” Jing Yuan counters, “and as my retainer, your primary duty is to perform specialized operations. The Stellaron Hunters are not the only fugitives we must bring to justice.”

“But the Disciples have already been caught. Isn’t the Realm-Keeping Commission capable of walking a couple criminals from point A to point B?”

He sighs. At least Yanqing isn’t anxious enough to mindlessly accept orders he doesn’t believe in, but Jing Yuan sees no reason for him to disapprove in the first place. Catching fugitives is what Yanqing disobeyed him to accomplish; shouldn’t he be delighted that Jing Yuan is essentially giving him permission to do what he was already doing?

Unless, of course, it’s a matter of prestige. As clouds that cover the heavens, we will protect the Xianzhou and soar eternal—whether it be through metalwork, agriculture, trade, or swordsmanship. But it’s much easier for the ironclad heroes to become immortalized in legend—not the farmers who sustain them, or the merchants who provide materials for their blades, or the transporters who imprison the criminals they capture. Becoming a Cloud Knight, fighting against the Abominations of Abundance, and bringing honor upon the Reignbow Arbiter’s name are the aspirations of all Xianzhou warriors; if Yanqing can prove himself capable of defeating the mara-struck, no soldier would dare scoff at his youth.

“Each individual aboard the Luofu has their part to play,” Jing Yuan says, arms folded behind his back, peering at Yanqing down the bridge of his nose. “If every soldier prioritized personal glory over the welfare of our community, the Cloud Knights would cease to function. Opportunities arise when you least expect them—you’ll get your chance to prove yourself someday.”

His mouth twists. “So this is about me being too young? I swore my oaths to the Xianzhou just like every other soldier. I’m prepared to fight—you acknowledged that yourself.”

It’s moments like these where Jing Yuan wishes he could take Yanqing’s shoulders and shake the recklessness out of him, rattling his brain until it clicks that he doesn’t need to bear the weight of the world at fourteen. Masking his frustration behind an air of indifference, Jing Yuan squares his shoulders and explains, “This isn’t a commentary on your skill, but rather, your experience. The cost of war is not appropriate for a child to pay.”

Yanqing takes a step forward. “Why won’t you let me show you that I’m capable? Why don’t you trust me with these things? Why can’t I help you—“

“Because you are not fit to,” Jing Yuan snaps, eyes narrowed into slits.

The silence that follows settles heavily over the room, squeezing the resolve out of Yanqing until all he can do is mutter a defeated, “Okay.”

Jing Yuan closes his eyes. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but Yanqing’s moxie is equally as exasperating as it is endearing. Although Yanqing must be well-aware by now that the words that come from Jing Yuan’s mouth rarely match his actual thoughts, any child’s heart would break should the object of their admiration imply disappointment—even if, in reality, it couldn’t be further from the truth.

He takes a deep breath. “There are few times in war when a general is able to be selfish. If I can keep blood off your hands for a little while longer…” He trails off, sighing. “In this cruel world, my one wish is for you to remain—“

By the time his eyes flutter back open, the room is painfully empty. “—Unharmed.”

As Jing Yuan slogs through his mountain of paperwork, so too does the sun creep across the sky. He remains in the office long after his staff retire home and only sets down his pen once he resolves—or plans to resolve—all immediate matters. Artificial moonlight illuminates the walk to his quarters, and his mind is half-asleep by the time he arrives home, unlocks the front door, and trades his boots for slippers. A thin strip of light seeping out from under the bathroom door brightens the hallway. With the finches asleep and Yanqing presumably in the restroom, he receives little fanfare upon his return.

Too exhausted to even consider whipping up a nighttime snack, he trudges into the kitchen with plans to fill his stomach with water. Surprisingly enough, a plate’s been left out for him on the table, covered with a napkin to preserve its warmth—undoubtedly Yanqing’s work. The gesture tugs at his heart; even after their disagreement, Yanqing still went out of his way to do something nice for him. Tomorrow, perhaps he’ll order some of Yanqing’s favorites for breakfast; a hearty meal does make for an excellent peace offering, after all.

He finishes eating and brings his plate to the sink. Yanqing’s cooking tools lie neatly in the drying rack, but the stand is curiously empty of any other dishes or cutlery. Either Yanqing already stowed away his plate—despite leaving all the other crockery out to dry—or he made dinner only for Jing Yuan, in which case his earlier lecture on taking care of himself flew right over the boy’s head. He sighs, glancing back towards the hallway; the bathroom light remains on despite Jing Yuan having taken at least twenty minutes to eat. Is Yanqing truly that intent on avoiding him? Should he check on—

Something fluffy brushes his legs, interrupting his train of thought. For a moment, all his worries melt away as Mimi peers up at him with shimmering blue eyes. He bends down to comb his fingers through its mane, whispering, “Hello, Mimi.” It curls closer to give him the lion equivalent of a welcome back hug. “Oh, I’ve missed you too!”

Thump.

His head whips up. The house holds silent and still, not a single shadow moving along the walls. After a few tense seconds, Jing Yuan glances back down at Mimi, who meets his eyes and blinks as if to ask ‘what was that?!’

Could Yanqing have knocked something over? He rises slowly, eyes scanning the hallway. Mimi’s tail swings back and forth, thudding rhythmically against his thigh. The lion pads after him as he carefully steps through the hallway and lightly raps his knuckles against the bathroom door. “Yanqing? Is everything alright?”

He hears what sounds like a muffled swear followed by an oddly metallic clang. What is that boy up to? Should he… go in? Is that a breach of privacy?

Mimi makes the choice for him by clawing at the door, leaving jagged gouges in the wood. Paint flakes crumble to the floor. Its paw catches on the knob, and the door begins to slide open; Jing Yuan catches it before it does. Mimi’s scratching subsides, but its tail keeps swinging wildly from side to side. Judging by the way it’s glaring over his shoulder, if he doesn’t open the door now, Mimi will do it for him. Violently.

Dealing with the property damage will have to wait. Lions are very intelligent creatures; if Mimi thinks something is wrong, then something is wrong. He cracks the door open slowly, giving Yanqing ample time to shut him out if needed. “Yanqing? Are you—“

The words die on his tongue.

Crimson dots splatter across the floor tile and porcelain sink. Yanqing holds a pocket knife in one hand and a lump of toilet paper in the other, a frantic expression on his face as he presses the tissue into his arm; it’s stained through in seconds. Along his other arm, red beads bubble over dark lines, trailing from his elbow to his wrist before dripping to the ground.

It’s blood. It’s Yanqing’s blood trickling onto the floorboards, soaking through wads of toilet paper, staining the ends of his hanfu sleeves, coating his blade. Jing Yuan is lunging forwards before his brain can catch up, grabbing his wrist and yelling, “Stop!”

Yanqing freezes. The hand holding the knife suspends in midair, fingers crushed between Jing Yuan’s grip. Neither of them say a word, too afraid to breathe as silence presses on them from all sides. His heartbeat pounds once in his ears, then twice, then thrice. Reality fades back into focus as he instinctively analyzes the situation.

Swaying on his feet, Yanqing stares unseeingly at himself in the mirror, lightheaded from a combination of blood-loss and who knows how many skipped meals. The sound he heard in the kitchen must’ve been from him losing his balance. Compared to the other shallow incisions, the deepest cut appears to have been an accident, likely caused when Jing Yuan startled him by knocking on the door. If Yanqing was already woozy before making the last slit… his injuries require medical attention now.

“Give me the knife,” he demands, keeping his voice carefully neutral. Yanqing hands the blade over with little resistance, and Jing Yuan sets the offending object on the sink counter to be dealt with later. He guides the dizzy and terrified boy to sit on the toilet seat, steadying him as he nearly trips over his own feet. Mimi curls over his legs, and Yanqing buries his hands in its mane, staining the white fur scarlet. “Breathe, Yanqing,” Jing Yuan reminds, then steps away to rummage through the cabinets, returning to his retainer’s side with a well-stocked first-aid kit.

With mechanical movements, he kneels in front of Yanqing, slips on a pair of disposable gloves, and gently brings his arms forward to inspect the wounds. Clearly, his retainer is a swordsman through and through; even slices along his own flesh are clean and precise. New, raw gashes interspersed with older pink lines weave together into a bloodied tapestry, meticulously carved in neat rows along his forearm like some sort of twisted art form. Nausea burns the back of his throat. He quickly swathes his arms in gauze.

He should’ve seen a scenario like this coming for miles. Being part of the Cloud Knights for as long as he has, he’s watched comrades tear themselves apart for scraps of reprieve, heard tell of jaded immortals who reveled in their own destruction just to feel something—hell, he witnessed the High Cloud Quintet’s descent into madness firsthand. Even he’s experimented with several unsavory coping mechanisms over the years. But nowadays, Jing Yuan has various outlets outside of work and war: meditation, Mimi, his garden.

What does Yanqing have other than blades?

Fear rolls off his retainer in waves. Uncharacteristically despondent, he folds in on himself like a collapsing star, making his frame as small as possible; it’s such a departure from his usual ebullience that it aches to see. He understands, suddenly, why Yanqing went to such great lengths to avoid him; there’s no way Jing Yuan wouldn’t have noticed the weariness in his eyes, or his sagging shoulders, or the cracks in his cheerful facade.

Some strategist he is. He tacitly let Yanqing fight losing battles in hopes that defeat would teach the lessons he didn’t—all while overlooking the extent that repeated, jarring humiliation would affect a child like Yanqing. Although he’d anticipated some setbacks, he allowed him to isolate and overwork himself for days before Jing Yuan took action—in which he opted to remove him from the one successful operation he’d performed while accidentally implying that Yanqing failed to meet his expectations. And now that his mistakes have led him into a catastrophe of his own making, he has no idea what to do or say without messing things up further.

Is this what all his calculations amount to? How smart is he really if his retainer rips his skin to shreds in the middle of the night, if countless soldiers lost their lives fighting the Disciples of Sanctus Medicus, if the Antimatter Legion nearly ravaged the Luofu right under his nose—

Stop. Lamenting his shortcomings isn’t going to heal Yanqing’s wounds, and the last thing either of them needs is for mara to start sprouting out of Jing Yuan’s ears. What he needs to be focusing on is weeding out information—just like an investigation. This is familiar. This is fine.

It takes immeasurable effort for him to keep his face blank. “When did this start?”

Silence. Yanqing either doesn’t want to answer or has withdrawn too far into his own mind to hear the question. Jing Yuan taps his finger against the underside of his forearm, and Yanqing blinks back into focus, his gaze fixated somewhere on Mimi’s mane. Jing Yuan retries, “I only want to help you, Yanqing, but I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me.”

“I don’t need any help,” Yanqing mumbles, his words slurring together. “Don’t worry about me. Just… ground me, or punish me, or… whatever so you can go to sleep.”

Jing Yuan blinks. He has… so many things to say to that: you need sleep as well, for one. Or perhaps: haven’t you punished yourself enough? Or even: I’m not leaving you alone right now—have you lost your mind? But despite the millions of responses racing through his head, none of them feel right.

Should he speak sternly, leveraging his authority to pressure Yanqing into divulging information at the risk of isolating him emotionally? Would it be better to talk softly and let Yanqing guide their discussion—even if it gives him the power to maneuver his way out of sharing his woes? If he treats him too gently, does it come across as pity? If he displays his feelings on his face, will Yanqing feel guilty? If he bridges the gap between teacher and guardian, will he shift their dynamic beyond what Yanqing is comfortable with? Is vulnerability something he himself is comfortable with?

Every possibility is shrouded in uncertainty—an uncertainty that Jing Yuan devotes his life to avoiding. One wrong move, and he pushes Yanqing further into the suffocating clutches of guilt. One wrong move, and Yanqing continues this futile penance until there’s no more flesh to cut and no more blood to lose. One wrong move, and he witnesses someone he cares about rip themselves apart again—

Ah. That’s why he’s so terrified. He doesn’t want to lose Yanqing to his own mind—not like how he lost the Quintet.

Back then, he was helpless to do anything but watch as an amalgam of love, grief, and devotion consumed his friends, leaving nothing behind but facsimile substitutes and dramatized tragedies. Since then, he’s taken extreme measures to ensure nothing like that ever slips past his gaze again, and yet… here he sits in a sick replica of history. He failed to save his friends once; he cannot fail again. His fear of gambling with possibilities will never steal more people from him. He refuses to lose anyone else to his own inaction.

All his worries suddenly become inconsequential. Why is he performing mental gymnastics to preserve the infallible image of the Arbiter General when for once in his life, Jing Yuan must make decisions according to his heart? If every path’s outcome is unknown, what can he do other than hope honesty is enough?

“Even the strongest warriors need assistance from time to time. Why else would you insist on carrying some of my burden?” Yanqing opens his mouth to protest, but no words come out. Jing Yuan manages a small, melancholic smile. “I’m here to stand beside you through this battle—just as you do for me.”

“But you… you already handle so much, general. The last thing you need is someone else to worry about.”

He’s never been the type to beg for fortune, but he finds himself sending a prayer to whatever Aeon will listen that Yanqing doesn’t notice his trembling fingers. “I’d rather worry about you in my every waking moment,” he murmurs, sincerity weighing down his voice, “than mourn you for a second.”

Yanqing has nothing to say to that. Jing Yuan places a clean layer of gauze over the bloodstained ones. The silence stretches uncomfortably between them, but he’s said his piece; it’s up to Yanqing to decide whether or not to accept his help.

Quietly—the quietest Jing Yuan has ever heard him—Yanqing mumbles, “About a week. I… I’ve only been—“ he swallows hard, eyes glued to the floor. “Only for a week.”

It’s an answer. Jing Yuan’s body tenses, afraid to move lest he shatter the moment and lose this opportunity. Cautiously, he prompts, “And how often has this been happening?”

Yanqing’s voice somehow gets even quieter. “Almost every night…”

He takes a deep breath. “I see.”

From there, it’s not difficult to put two and two together; this began as a direct result of his passivity. His regret permeates the air. “It’s not…” Yanqing starts, eyes flicking up then back down again. “General, please don’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known—“

“I should’ve—“

“—that I’d turn out to be a bad investment.”

…What?

He isn’t entirely sure what he’s going to say when he opens his mouth, but Yanqing speaks first. “I proved you right. I-I proved everyone right. I’m not capable of being a lieutenant, or winning any real battles, or facing the mara-struck. The only thing I am capable of is being an obstacle—and a disappointing one at that.” He laughs wetly, tugging his arms out of Jing Yuan’s grasp to press his palms into his eyes. “Aeons, I can’t imagine what they’d say if they saw me now.”

“Yanqing—“

“Probably something about what a sore loser I am,” Yanqing rambles, growing more and more hysterical, “and that I don’t deserve to call myself the general’s right hand because I can’t win a fight and can’t be useful to the Luofu and c-can’t even cut myself right—“

“Yanqing.”

His jaw clicks shut.

Jing Yuan occupies himself with prying Yanqing’s hands away from his face to avoid the turmoil churning in his stomach. There is… so much to unpack there. Clearly, these insecurities have been festering for far too long, and all the Stellaron Crisis did was bring them into the limelight.

It occurs to him, suddenly, how this situation must appear from Yanqing’s eyes. Immediately after masters of the sword taunted him, he was thrust into the battlefield against an enemy Jing Yuan never prepared him for; removed from the one mission he’d successfully completed for seemingly patronizing reasons; scolded for not taking care of himself when Jing Yuan hadn’t left him the resources to do so; and had every doubt he’d ever felt about living up to his title as retainer proven right when Jing Yuan told him he wasn’t fit to stand at his side. Yes, Yanqing brought defeat upon himself when he deliberately disobeyed his orders, and he urgently needed a wake up call about humility before his arrogance landed him in a medical ward. But this?—his plummeting self confidence, a destructive sense of devotion, blood streaming down his arms—was not at all worth the lesson.

He softens his voice, adjusting the gauze back over Yanqing’s injuries. “You are a fourteen year old child. I am a thousand year old war veteran. You are not meant to be my stand-in.”

“Then what good am I?” He curls into himself, ducking his head. “What… what good am I if you’ve devoted years to training me, and all I can do with my sword is slice my arms to ribbons?”

“That’s not true,” he insists. “You are the youngest lieutenant in Cloud Knight history. You’ve defeated three Brood Lords, sunk the Cloudseizer Fleet, and beaten me in a handful of spars. You’re capable of wielding not one, not two, but six swords at a time. You outclass every swordsman on this ship, and you haven’t even come of age.” Yanqing glances up at him with wide eyes, and Jing Yuan wrangles in his emotions before continuing, “Losing one battle does not make you a ‘bad investment,’ nor does it doesn’t diminish any of your other achievements.”

“But it wasn’t one,” Yanqing counters, eyebrows knitting together. “It was three. In a row.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that failure does not dictate your worth.” Jing Yuan leans forward, passion radiating from his eyes. “You are a fourteen year old child who reached the rank of lieutenant before reaching double digits, who repeatedly confronted the mara-struck head on, who stood their ground with three former members of the High Cloud Quintet, a Stellaron Hunter, and an intergalactic traveler carrying the blessings of multiple Aeons. How many children—how many people—do you believe could pull off such feats?”

Eternally one-track minded, Yanqing zeroes in on his lost battles. “But I didn’t win against any of them.”

“Winning is not what matters. After all that has transpired, I’m simply glad we’re both alive. That, in of itself, is a victory.”

Yanqing leans away, speechless. Jing Yuan lifts the gauze to check his wounds. With the bleeding stalled to a slow ooze, he can make out the individual lines down his arms. They’re fewer in number than he anticipated; he suspects Yanqing would’ve made more if Jing Yuan hadn’t happened to hear him fall over—Aeons, Yanqing likely would’ve died from the combination blood-loss and starvation. Jing Yuan closes his eyes, centering himself with the rise and fall of his chest, then breaks away for a moment to dampen a cloth. His injuries definitely warrant a trip to the Alchemy Commission, but given the time of night and the fact that the bleeding has indeed slowed, Jing Yuan elects to clean and bandage the lacerations himself and bring Yanqing tomorrow.

He wipes away the dried blood. Yanqing hisses when he presses too harshly, and Jing Yuan whispers, “Apologies.”

Eyes squeezed shut, Yanqing tangles his fingers into Mimi’s mane as Jing Yuan continues to dab at his wounds. A beat of silence passes before Yanqing blurts, “Why didn’t you tell me they were your friends?”

Jing Yuan shakes his head. “I assure you, it wasn’t personal. I saw no purpose in dredging up a past I thought long buried.”

“…Okay.” Yanqing hesitates before asking, “But then why… why did you remove me from the frontlines?”

He sighs, having expected this question. Would Yanqing be disheartened if he revealed his true— no. Enough second guessing. Miscommunication is what landed them in this situation; it’s not going to get them out of it. “I’m… very old, Yanqing. Countless eager, young soldiers have cycled through the Cloud Knights’ ranks, and I’ve witnessed war crush their spirits. You still have many years ahead of you—years that shouldn’t be weighed down by grief.”

Yanqing nods slowly. Jing Yuan switches to his other arm. “…I know that’s not what you want to hear.”

“It’s fine. I think… I’m starting to get it.” He pauses. “So… it wasn’t a punishment?”

“It wasn’t intended to be, no. What made you believe that?”

Yanqing chews his lip, averting his eyes. Just as Jing Yuan starts to accept that he may not get an answer, he admits, “I thought… you didn’t want me to get in the way like I did with Jingliu, and Blade, and… yeah.”

Jing Yuan dots healing salve along the cuts, waiting patiently for Yanqing to gather the rest of his words. “All I want is to prove I’m useful to the Luofu, and that putting your faith in me wasn’t a waste. Not being strong enough is fixable—I can just practice harder. But not being old enough?” He huffs a laugh. “No amount of training can change that.” The way he looks down at his arms with such scalding bitterness towards his own self makes Jing Yuan’s heart ache. “It’s hard to think about any of that while I’m in pain.”

Jing Yuan draws in a long breath, unsure what to say; platitudes aren’t meaningful enough to rewrite his mentality in one night. He settles on, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

Yanqing hums. Jing Yuan sets the ointment aside and reaches for a roll of bandages. “Life as a soldier won’t become easier. The monsters you face, the losses you encounter: all of it accumulates into a terrible, terrible burden—one that you will, unfortunately, bear for the rest of your life. But never,” he stresses, “should you have to carry that weight alone. If you need a distraction, tell me. If you need someone to assure you everything will turn out alright, tell me. And if you ever,” his voice cracks, and he ducks his head, “feel like doing this again, tell me. Please, don’t hesitate to ask for what you need from me.”

Yanqing’s lower lip wobbles. “Can you…” He trails off, steeling his shoulders before retrying, “Can you just clearly state whether you’re disappointed or angry with me?”

Jing Yuan lays his hands on Yanqing’s shoulders. “You don’t owe me some sort of blood debt—whether the blood spilled is your enemy’s or your own. You are not a disappointment to me. You never have been.” He smiles. “Is that clear enough for you?”

Yanqing sucks a sharp breath through his teeth as his eyes shimmer with tears. “I’m sorry.” He pitches forwards into Jing Yuan’s chest, apologies muffled into his clothing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I— I’m so sorry.”

Jing Yuan winds his arms around his back, tracing circles along the grooves of his spine while sobs wrack Yanqing’s body. Even as tears soak through the fabric of his shirt, and Mimi’s head is squished uncomfortably between them, and the cold bathroom tile seeps into his knees, Jing Yuan has never felt so grateful to be alive.

Amid tedious paperwork and the repetition of training drills, it’s easy to forget the significance of what Yanqing has given him: proof that joy still exists, even in a world centered around warfare. Proof that his years of hardship have led him to a happy ending. Proof that life is meant to be enjoyed. What he told Yanqing about learning from their failures, about drawing upon each other for strength, about ensuring the future doesn’t become as bleak as the past… maybe Jing Yuan also needed to hear those words, to have someone else believe those things too.

For Yanqing to diminish his value to just a weapon when he reintroduced hope into his life… if a couple tears fall from his own eyes, no-one will ever know.

After an indiscernible amount of time, his retainer’s cries wane into sniffles, and he keeps his face hidden in the crook of Jing Yuan’s neck. He picks up the bandages and wraps the last of his injuries. “If I delegate enough tasks tomorrow,” he muses, “the two of us can sleep in.”

Yanqing hums in agreement. He always wakes at dawn to maximize his training time; it speaks volumes that he doesn’t protest.

There’s still so much to do: clean the blood splatters off the counter and floor, repair the door that Mimi scratched up, figure out how to designate work on his second day back—Aeons, how is Jing Yuan going to sleep tonight? But no matter what they face next, he’s certain he, Yanqing, and the Luofu will come out on top.

“Never feel guilty for having limits, Yanqing,” Jing Yuan says, giving Yanqing’s hands one final, comforting squeeze. “They’re proof of your humanity.”