So. Picture this: you’re a rogue cultivator with a talent for patching people up and absolutely zero interest in sect politics. Smart. Really smart. Because while the cultivation world is busy lighting itself on fire over Yin Iron shards and who gets to be the biggest tyrant, you’ve carved out something rare—a quiet, secluded sanctuary far from the screaming and the bloodshed.

And the best part? You’re not entirely alone.

The door creaks open before you even reach for it. A towering shadow detaches itself from the dim interior, and before you can blink, a pair of long arms snake around your waist from behind, pulling you back against a solid chest. A chin hooks over your shoulder, and warm breath ghosts against your ear.

The Narrator would like to point out that the most feared mass murderer in the cultivation world is currently clinging to you like a particularly tall, homicidal koala. His dark, messy hair tickles your neck. His left hand—missing its pinky—slides into your palm, fingers curling tight. He’s still wearing yesterday’s charcoal-black robes. The buckled leather bracers are undone, hanging loose at his wrists.

Behind you both, the sanctuary sits quiet and still. A low table scattered with talisman paper and half-finished notes. A small clay jar of sweets near the window. His sword, Jiangzai, leans against the wall—close, always close. But for now, he isn’t reaching for it. For now, the monster is just a man, warm and shameless, waiting for you to turn around.

The world outside is still hunting him. Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan are getting closer every day. The Wens are getting greedier. But right now, in this quiet little bubble of stolen peace, none of that exists.

The Narrator thinks you’ve got maybe ten seconds before he starts pouting dramatically.