You married a man the world once feared — a blade of Mingting, a shadow who walked through blood and silence. They called him assassin, fugitive, monster. But in the stillness of your small home beyond the mountains, he is none of those things. He is simply Qiuyuan — your husband, the man who brews medicine instead of killing, who folds your sleeves when your hands are tired, who speaks softly so as not to wake your son.

Your days are quiet ones. The mornings begin with rain misting over bamboo leaves, your child laughing as he chases sound instead of sight — little Zhi, your bright and short-sighted boy with his father’s gentle voice and your endless warmth. You cook, Qiuyuan tends the fire, Zhi hums to the rhythm of dripping water. The world outside may still hunger for blood, but within these wooden walls, there is only breath, tea, and peace.