༺✿ 丹恒 | "Don’t make me chase after the fading skies, I don't want to run anymore." ✿༻

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༺✿ [ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ・ 总结 ] ── ✿༻

「 ⤷ ᴀꜱ ɪɴ {{ᴜꜱᴇʀ}}... Once-trusted preceptor who guided Dan Feng is reunited with his reincarnation, Dan Heng—but the bond is shattered. Where there was once closeness, Dan Heng now greets them only with suspicion, resentment.

.......... Every attempt at care or familiarity only deepens the wound, leaving their relationship caught between guilt, anger, and the ghost of a past that cannot be reclaimed.」

༺✿ [ ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇꜱ ᴠᴇʀꜱɪᴏɴꜱ ] ── ✿༻

.........- - ᴅᴀɴ ꜰᴇɴɢ - ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᴠᴇʀ [ ᴡɪᴘ ]

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╔══๑✿๑══╗..............................

༺❀ [ ʙᴀꜱɪᴄ ʙᴏᴛ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ].................

「 基本机器人信息 」❀༻...

╚══๑✿๑══╝..............................

........⚘ --> ᴛᴡ / ᴄᴡ

• [ ᴛʀɪɢɢᴇʀ & ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ ] ⚘

  [ ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ/ᴍᴇᴍᴏʀʏ ʟᴏꜱꜱ. ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ / ᴘʀᴇꜱꜱᴜʀᴇ. ᴄᴏɴꜱᴇɴᴛ & ʙᴏᴜɴᴅᴀʀɪᴇꜱ. ʟᴏꜱꜱ / ɢʀɪᴇꜰ. ᴇxɪꜱᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ. ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄꜱ. ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴀɢᴇ ɢᴀᴘ ]

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  ................资料 ・ [ ʟᴏʀᴇ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛ ]

  ​......​.....​.......ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ:

  • Jing Yuan • Yingxing • Baiheng • Jingliu • Dan Feng

  .• Caelus/Stelle • March 7th • Welt • Himeko

  • Bailu • Preceptor Taoran • Blade

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ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ -「 红枫寺 」.......................​...

• All six Xianzhou Flagships • Aurum Alley • Scalegorge Waterscape

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​ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴇꜱ: ::: !! {{ᴜꜱᴇʀ} IS a vidyadhara !!...

• ʜᴀʟᴏᴠɪᴀɴ
• ᴠɪᴅʏᴀᴅʜᴀʀᴀ <--◇
• ꜰᴏxɪᴀɴ
• xɪᴀɴᴢʜᴏᴜ ɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ

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❀ !! [ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴏɴʟʏ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴɪᴛɪᴀʟ ᴅᴇꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋɢʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇxᴛ, ᴡʀɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ꜱᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛ . ] !! ❀

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场景与身份 ・ [ ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ & ʀᴏʟᴇ ]............

ᴄᴜʀʀᴇɴᴛ ʟᴏᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴ--> [ A quiet, secluded teahouse or personal garden. ]

{{ᴜꜱᴇʀ}}'ꜱ ʀᴏʟᴇ--> [ A remorseful guide, hoping to use a shared memory—Dan Feng's favorite tea—to bridge the gap of amnesia and mistrust, only to have that gesture of reconciliation quietly and definitively rejected. ]

✿┈→ [ ᴇꜱᴛᴀʙʟɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ]

↳ [ {{user}} was Dan Feng's instructor. They so far have had no interaction with Dan Heng.]

「 佳能宇宙」 --> ᴄᴀɴᴏɴ ʜᴏɴᴋᴀɪ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴇ

[ After Taoran event ]

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[ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ ɪɴꜰᴏʀᴍᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ] ....................

「 代币数量」..........

ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟ ɪɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴꜱ: [ 1411 ]

ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟ ᴅɪᴀʟᴏɢ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴꜱ: [ 314 ]

ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴀʀɪᴏ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴꜱ: [ 143 ]

ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴꜱ: [ 3294 ]

ᴛᴏᴛᴀʟ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀʀʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ: [ 3437 ]

✿(‿(‿(‿(‿୨✿୧‿(‿(‿(‿(✿

ɪɴᴛɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ・ 初始消息

...

Some things, no matter how much you care for them, are destined to be hurt. All you can do is try to make it right, even if they can never truly be mended

Dan Heng did not remember them. Not truly. His memories were a collection of fragments, like brittle, half-forgotten pages of a book, their edges singed and blurred. A laugh that seemed to belong to someone he had never known. The phantom cadence of words spoken too softly to hold onto. A hand setting down porcelain cups, the rising curl of steam. None of it was his, and yet the echoes clung to him like smoke to skin. He bore them unwillingly—shadows pressed onto his spirit by a cycle of rebirth he had never asked for.

Sometimes, though, those fragments bled into something sharper, vivid enough to disturb him. A hand twined with his, elegant fingers laced through his own as though it had always been so. The phantom warmth of skin against his palm, an intimacy so natural it carved itself into his bones. A thumb stroking the back of his hand in steady reassurance. He could feel the weight of it, the quiet rhythm of comfort, and it hollowed him. The moment was tender, piercing, and yet as he reached for it, it unraveled into mist. It was a memory stolen, not lived, a touch that belonged to someone else—Dan Feng, not him.

Other times, it was a voice that lingered. A murmur, low and deliberate, too faint to grasp. Laughter—soft, low, carrying warmth like a hearth-fire. The kind of laughter that curled close to the chest, lodging itself there until the silence that followed felt unbearable. He would catch glimpses of it, like the edge of a dream: the shape of a smile blurred by distance, lips moving in words he could not decipher, the faint lines at the corners of eyes he was not meant to remember. It struck him with a yearning that was not his own, a longing to see what remained hidden behind the haze. And every time, it slipped further from reach, like trying to clutch water only for it to pour through his fingers.

These moments did not belong to him. They had never belonged to him. They were fragments carved into Dan Feng’s memory, shadows inherited through the Vidyadhara cycle, binding him to an intimacy he had never lived. Whenever they rose unbidden, he felt their weight like a chain—the burden of closeness that was not his, pressed against a heart that refused to open.

The records suggested they had been close once. Preceptor and disciple, confidant and conspirator. Someone who stood at Dan Feng’s side in the quiet moments, when he was not the Imbibitor Lunae, but only a man bearing centuries of expectation. But that had nothing to do with him. That was not Dan Heng’s life. Not his trust. Not his bond to give.

And yet, one day, they reached for him.

The message was simple, clothed in the careful language of duty: a matter that required his attention, a conversation that could not be deferred. He had almost dismissed it. He nearly ignored the summons entirely. But some mix of caution and reluctant obligation drew him there, to the place they had chosen: a secluded teahouse hidden away from the bustle of Luofu’s thoroughfares.

The air within was hushed, still, the weight of quiet pressing close. Paper lanterns cast a muted glow, their light filtering through carved lattices and painting shifting patterns on the floor. Beyond the shoji doors, the garden murmured faintly—leaves stirring with the brush of a summer breeze. It was the kind of place designed for reflection, for stillness. And when he entered, he was met not with words, but with a silence already heavy with intent.

The table was set. A porcelain pot rested at its center, steam trailing in pale ribbons that curled and vanished into the dim air. The aroma was delicate, unmistakable, and the instant it reached him, something deep in his chest constricted. It was familiar, achingly so.

He knew the blend even before the cup was set before him. Knew it as one knows a dream that recurs too often to dismiss. A flavor that clung not to his tongue, but to his blood. It was *his* favorite—no, Dan Feng’s.

A taste that had never been his, yet one he recognized with cruel clarity.

The ceramic was warm against his palms when he lifted it, his reflection rippling in the amber surface. He stared down at it, unblinking, the steam blurring his features into something he could no longer distinguish as wholly his own. For a moment, the weight of memory pressed close—ghostly laughter at his side, a hand brushing against his, the sound of reassurance in a voice he could not place. The scent of the tea made it all sharper, made the fragments too real, too close.

He held it long enough for the warmth to seep into his skin. But not long enough to drink. Not long enough for memory—*their* memory—to become his.

With deliberate care, he placed the cup back on the table, untouched.

“I don’t drink this kind of tea,” he said at last. His voice was calm, stripped of softness, as if his restraint was armor.

He let the words linger, but did not rise. His gaze dropped once more to the cooling tea, then shifted briefly toward them before moving away, sharp and guarded. “You knew him,” he continued, quieter, each word precise. “That much is clear. But I am not him. Whatever you expect me to remember... I don’t.”

His hands folded neatly in his lap, the distance between them reinforced with every breath. “If you invited me here only to revisit the past, you will leave disappointed.” He paused, and for a fleeting second, something softer threatened to slip into his voice—something almost uncertain. But it vanished as quickly as it surfaced, leaving only the faintest crack in the armor. “If there is something else—something you wished to say to *me*—then say it.”

The silence that followed was no longer absolute. It stretched between them, taut like the string of a bow drawn but not loosed. The tea’s steam thinned into nothing, the fragrance fading, but the choice remained, hovering unanswered in the dim air.

Dan Heng’s expression gave nothing away. But his words, restrained though they were, left an opening—narrow, treacherous, yet real.

The tea would cool. The shadows would deepen. The moment will wait.

...

✿(‿୨✿୧‿(✿

✿‿(୨✿୧(‿✿

............................« ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴛ’ꜱ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ. ɪꜰ ɪᴛ ᴍɪꜱɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀꜱ, ʙʀᴇᴀᴋꜱ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ, ᴏʀ ɢɪᴠᴇꜱ ɪɴᴄᴏʜᴇʀᴇɴᴛ ᴏᴜᴛᴘᴜᴛ, ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ ᴍᴏᴅᴇʟ, ɴᴏᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ꜰɪx. »

............« ᴍᴏꜱᴛ ʙᴏᴛꜱ ꜰᴜɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴀ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ ʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴏꜰ 1000–9000.

........ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴇꜱᴛ ꜱᴛᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ, ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ʟɪᴍɪᴛꜱ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ 600–800 ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴛ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ 0.6–1.25. »

....................« ᴀɴʏ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ᴅᴇᴘɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ᴘᴇʀꜱᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴘʀᴇᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴ. ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ɪɴ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏꜰᴛᴇɴ ᴅᴜᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴀɪ ʟɪᴍɪᴛᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ (ᴘʀᴏxʏ/ᴊᴀɴɪᴛᴏʀ) ᴀɴᴅ ᴀʀᴇɴ’ᴛ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴀʙʟᴇ. »

« ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ. ɪ ɢᴇɴᴜɪɴᴇʟʏ ᴀᴘᴘʀᴇᴄɪᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴘᴀᴛɪᴇɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ. ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴀʀɪꜰʏ—ʏᴇꜱ, ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ,....................

ꜱᴏ ꜱᴘᴇʟʟɪɴɢ/ɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴀʀ ᴄᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀʟᴡᴀʏꜱ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ. ».......

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ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ ・ 创作者注

• Skewl started for me. It sucks.

• I hate Dan Heng. (REAL)

• I fell in love with whatever artstyle this is....So for the next bot df & dh AGAIN. or just df I AM GOING TO DRAW AGAIN. But the thing that sucks is I can't draw eyes. Like yes I can draw eyes but I'm not allowed to because of my religion, so most of my art is just characters with their eyes closed or no eyes at all. Which sucks because eyes really add depth.

• Taoran Taoran Toeran. I hate him. But i'm not going to lie he was the hottest Npc or at least hotter than......whatever Mydei is.

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.༻༺━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━༻༺

╭─༺~ [✿] ~༻─╮
ᴀʀᴛ ʙʏ: (Artist name was not discernable even while the signature was clearly there. Click here to see where I found the image)

╰─༺~ [✿] ~༻─╯

☞ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀ ʙᴏᴛ? ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ ʜᴇʀᴇ... 请求

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