Chapter Text
Tired.
He was so tired.
Jing Yuan exhaled slowly, a low, weary sight that scraped its way from the bottom of his lungs. He sat hunched on the edge of the desk inside his battlefield tent, lit only by the flicker of lantern light against half-dried blood flaking his armor. His hand hovered above a stack of mission logs and casualty reports from the latest skirmish on the Yuque—attacked by a planet too close to the Alliance, festering with the cursed remnants of the Abundance.
He hadn’t even removed his armor yet.
Fu Xuan and Yukong’s compiled notes on the mutations in the abominations blurred before his eyes. Villages razed in hours. Lower ship decks breached. Families gone without a trace. Six hundred Cloud Knights had been dispatched to aid their sister ship, Captain Dewei at the helm. That should have been more than enough for the Loufu to fulfill its duty.
But he’s gone anyway.
The Xianzhou people certainly loved their gossip and it wasn’t long before the whispers began and speculations of his motives twisted amongst the tide. Some claimed he hungered fro glory, trying to cement his legacy with yet another heroic tale for the records. Others muttered he had a death wise—too long in his position, too haunted by the past, too tired of standing still.
None of them were right.
Well, not all of them, at least.
“General.”
He looked up at Dewei’s grim expression in the tent’s opening.
“Another wave’s been spotted. Squad Seven is requesting support.”
Jing Yuan said nothing. He simply stood, the weight of Starfall Reverie grounding him as he crossed the tent. As he passed the captain, his voice was low, quiet as a brewing storm.
“Then let’s not keep them waiting.”
He didn’t care about history books or public perception. He didn’t care about fate. The truth was simpler, and crueler.
He was just tired of living in a world that outlast everything that once made it bright.
The thunder of battle swallowed him whole—gnashing teeth, lightning splitting the skies, burning homes, beast after beast reduced to carrion under his blade. Blood soaked in his sleeves, splattered across his armor, claws had gauged his arm but he didn’t even feel the pain. His muscles screamed for rest, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t every time he did the memories would rush back in and threaten to drown him.
The village was a ruin of what it once was. A smoldering skeleton barely holding on to its shape. As drifted on the wind like snow, the stench of charred flesh and tainted blood lingering in the air. The beasts came with no end in sight. And he stood amongst them as a lone harbinger.
Jing Yuan moved liked he feared nothing. His guandao san with each arc, slicing through sinew and bone, burning through twisted flesh. Lighting Lord took out clusters in a single, devastating swoop. When the final corpse fell at his feet, he turned to his squad with a gaze as unwavering as steel.
“Search for any survivors. Bring the wounded to the medical tents.”
“Yes, General!”
His men scattered and Jing Yuan was left alone amongst the wreckage.
The silence was always the worst.
He walked.
Bodies lines the streets—human, monster, some mutated amalgamation of both. The same story written again and again in blood. It didn’t shock him anymore. 500 or so years on the battlefield made one use to the tragedies of war. But it still hurt. Just in quieter ways now. Ways that ate at the edges of things. Even if there wasn’t much left to bite.
His mind wandered. A dangerous habit, especially when he was alone and unguarded. Some things didn’t die without a fight.
He could still hear Yingxing’s barking laughter, challenging him to a duel over who would fell more beasts before sundown. Baiheng’s scolding groans rang clear, lecturing them for coming back with more wounds than planned. Usually inflicted by each other’s short-tempered fists. His master, Jingliu’s, sharp warnings, eyes cold as the ice she commanded, but laced with thinly veiled care. Dan Feng’s quiet glances, his hand sometimes brushing Jing Yuan’s shoulder when words failed.
A cup of wine poured out at the base of a statue, marking another successful mission.
Now, he was the only one left.
And wasn’t the cruelest joke of all?
Of five, only one remains to carry the weight.
He could almost laugh, if he wasn’t certain the psychotic break that would inevitably follow would surely be his undoing.
Down that way Mara lies.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to give into it now. After all, what reason did he really have to continue like this? He was merely on a footnote in the ever enduring legacy of the Loufu. He’d served his time, lead countless campaigns, fought in numerous wars, led his ship dutifully. He was over 6 centuries old. Shouldn’t he be allowed to sleep by now?
When they found the abomination’s nest, he could take point. One final battle, that would be the best way to go. The honorable way. If he was a touch slower than normal no one needed to be the wiser, and if he let the wounds be just enough to keep him from being a threat to anyone, to make him an easy kill, he could succumb beneath it all and finally, finally rest.
A wail pierced through the silence, shattering the cloud descending upon his mind.
Jing Yuan blinked, brows furrowed. What was that? He shut his eyes, straining his ears. It sounded like—
A child.
Thin. Wavering. Muffled.
His eyes snapped open and he ran.
——
Rounding the nearest corner, Jing Yuan slowed before a small house—still mostly intact. Its door sagged from shattered hinges, wood splintered and claw-gouged. He tightened his grip on his guandao, then stepped through the threshold.
In the back of his mind, he could practically hear Jingliu’s sharp hiss, ‘you idiot, you shouldn’t go into places without backup!’
But he elected to ignore it, as he often did in his youth where risking her ire was more an act of rebellion than true defiance.
The interior was dim. No lanterns. No candles. Just silence, thick and unnerving. Dust floated through the pale light that slanted in from a fractured shutter. The house smelled of ash and damp, and something else beneath it—old milk, maybe. Unwashed fabric. The stench of abominations clinging to the air.
Jing Yuan’s voice dropped low, gentle despite the tensions coiled in his stance. “I’m a Cloud Knight of the Loufu. I’m here to help. If anyone can hear me—please, call out.”
No reply.
Only the soft, steady wails of a child.
High. Thin. Distressed.
He followed the sound through the ruined remains of the house. Toppled shelves. A shattered table. Chairs knocked onto their sides. The hallway narrowed into a short corridor, where a door hung half open—splintered, claw-marked, the lock bent back like a broken spine.
His gut twisted.
He stepped close, breath tight, and nudged it open.
There, wedged in the corner behind an overturned dresser, was a laundry basket. A patch of frayed linens padded the inside, and nestled within them—a baby. Small, flushed, kicking, fists clenched and cheeks red from relentless crying. They squirmed, lips trembling, tears carving tracks down a round dust-smeared face.
Jing Yuan’s weapon vanished in a pulse of starlight.
He dropped to one knee, slowly, a thought afraid to fright them further. His gloves were still crusted with blood, knuckles raw from the fight. But his hands were steady. Gentle. Reverent.
“Shhh,” he murmured. “You’re alright now. You’re safe. I’ve got you, little one.”
The baby’s cries softened to a ragged whimper. Jing Yuan gathered them—fabric and all—into his arms. He was no expert in infants. In fact, he tended to avoid young children whenever possible. But he remembered the way Yukong used to bounce her daughter in those early Charioteer meetings, her arm curls just so, her voice soft and rhythmic even mid-argument.
Awkwardly, Jing Yuan copied the motion, patting the child’s back in slow, clumsy circles. Miraculously, it worked. The piercing wails dulled into tired hiccups.
He stood and turned slowly, scanning the room.
No blood. No signs of a scuffle. No beast tracks. No shattered glass or rampaging damage. Not the aftermath of a monster’s attack and a parents desperate protection.
No. This hadn’t been stormed.
It had been abandoned.
And the baby left behind.
His stomach turned cold.
Left as a distraction. As bait. A screaming lure to draw the beasts away while the rest ran.
His gripe tightened.
It was only Dan Feng’s old wisdom—“breathe through your nose, let it pass through you like rain, you are no slave to anger, it heeds your command”—that kept his steady. The fury burned white-hot in his chest nonetheless, but he refused to let it take root. This child didn’t need vengeance. Not now. Not from him.
They needed warmth. Care. A chance.
And Aeons help him, they deserved more than this.
He did what he could. Improved with what little remained in the wreckage—clean cloth, a spare blanket, a faded plush he thought was a bear. His hands were too large, too clumsy for this kind of work. But they were sure. Patient.
When he finally cradled the baby again, swaddled tight against the cold, their whimpers had faded to gentle sniffles. Gold eyes, soft as candlelight, blinked up at him. And what one tiny hand reached up and touched his jaw—light as a feather, warm as spring—
Something broke inside him. Or maybe, something finally began to heal.
Hadn’t felt it in year. That flicker.
Hope.
He brushed a thumb across their round cheek, quiet wonder in his eyes.
“Let’s get you somewhere safe,” he whispered. “We’ll find you food. Warmth. Something better than this.”
The baby cooed in reply. It was enough.
Jing yuans stepped back out in the grey mid-day light, a battle-scarred general carrying a fragile bundle of life to safety.
He didn’t know it yet—but the world had just changed.
And so had he.
——
The baby was gone.
Jing Yuan had handed him off to a medic the moment he returned to base—still swaddled in makeshift blankets, cheeks tear-streaked but calm. The woman accepted the bundle with steady hands and a respectful bow, murmuring something about checking vitals, feeding, rest.
He hadn’t lingered.
He turned on his heel and walked straight into the war tent, stripping off his gauntlets on the way, blood still drying in the seams. A basin of cold water and a rag were the only attempts made at cleaning up before his attention returned to strategy reports and incoming scout logs. Captain Dewei waited with a small group of aides already charting enemy movements. The next wave would come by dawn, if not sooner.
Jing Yuan became the General again. He gave orders. Directed formations. Cool, controlled—slipping into the familiar weight of command like armor.
The warmth that had stirred briefly in his chest—that fragile pulse of something living, something soft—faded by the minute.
It was for the best.
His duty was to the Luofu. That was where his focus belonged. He had no time to coddle a child, no place worrying at their side. The infant would be placed in a good home—either on the Yuque or transferred to one of their sister ships. Capable hands would care for him. A normal life would be led.
And Jing Yuan? He would not even be a shadow in the boy’s memory.
Yes, this was for the best.
...Or so he kept telling himself.
But halfway through the planning session, the tent flaps burst open.
A breathless medic stood in the doorway—cheeks flushed, hair coming loose from hastily pinned braids. Her uniform was streaked with infant formula and panic.
“General!” she gasped.
Every head turned.
Jing Yuan’s eyes narrowed. “Has there been an attack?”
“Wha—? No! Apologies, General,” she stammered, bowing. “It’s the… the child you brought in. He won’t stop crying.”
He stared.
The medic squirmed beneath his gaze, shrinking in place like a worm beneath a finch’s beak.
“We’ve checked everything,” she continued. “He’s clean, warm, uninjured. Fed. But nothing is working. We thought—when you brought him in, he was so calm. Maybe if you just… held him. Again. He might settle.”
Jing Yuan let out a slow breath through his nose, voice dry as Scalegorge sand. “Healers asking a general for childcare? I wasn’t aware this fell beyond your purview. Or has the Alchemy Commission begun sending us sub-par medics?”
She flinched, then straightened. “With respect, sir… he’s disturbing the other patients. He won’t take to anyone else.”
Before he could reply, Dewei cleared his throat gently.
“We have enough to begin deployment planning,” the captain said. “You can step away, General. I’ll oversee this phase.”
Jing Yuan gave him a sharp look—then exhaled, resigned. He gestured toward the medic.
“Lead the way.”
They passed through rows of tents lit by flickering lanterns. And before they even reached the healer’s pavilion, he could hear it—shrill, frantic wailing. A sound that cut through the noise of camp like a blade. Desperate, hoarse, unrelenting.
Inside, the healers looked worn down to the bone. One paced with a rattle. Another gently rocked the child in their arms, murmuring something soothing he clearly wasn’t listening to.
The baby’s face was red, soaked in tears. Little fists flailed. Patients nearby groaned in frustration, some covering their ears.
“Will you shut that brat up?” a soldier hissed.
“We’re trying!” a medic snapped. “He won’t calm down!”
“I’ll tell you what’d shut him up—stuff a sock in—”
A throat cleared. Firm. Cold.
Silence fell.
Those nearby stood at attention—some more convincingly than others.
“Sir!”
“At ease.” Jing Yuan raised a hand, though his golden eye was fixed sharply on the man who’d spoken.
He stepped forward with slow, deliberate grace, the corners of his mouth lifting into something dangerous. “I apologize for interrupting. What was it you were saying, soldier?”
“G-General, I—I didn’t mean—”
“You’ll best keep that filth locked behind your teeth,” Jing Yuan said, voice quiet and edged with lightning. “Or I will see that you have no tongue left to speak with. Do I make myself clear?”
The man paled. “Y-Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Jing Yuan straightened, gaze sweeping past him to the stunned medic. “Now. Let me see to the child.”
She nodded and led him toward a quieter corner of the tent.
The medic cradling the child looked exhausted, pacing small circles. Her arms trembled slightly from strain. She looked up in relief as he entered. “General.”
He hesitated—but only for a moment—before holding out his hands.
She passed the baby to him without another word.
He didn’t expect it to work. Didn’t believe for a moment that it would.
But the moment the infant nestled against his chest—
Silence.
A hiccup. A soft little squirm. And then the faintest sigh, warm and damp against his collar.
Jing Yuan froze.
The baby burrowed against him, tiny fingers curling against the base of his throat. Then looked up—wide golden eyes still glossy from tears.
Jing Yuan stared back, struck mute.
“Oh,” one of the medics murmured, awed. “He really does like you, General.”
He said nothing.
The baby reached for his face, chubby fingers grasping at a pale strand of hair. Tugged, and gave a gurgling laugh.
Jing Yuan, still silent, offered a gloved finger.
The baby latched on immediately, gnawing at the knuckle like it was a lifeline.
It should’ve been laughable—the mighty Arbiter-General, the Lion of the Luofu, pacifier of rebellions, undone by a single, gummy-mouthed infant.
And yet—
Something in his chest pulled taut.
He remembered the old stories, told over firelight and drink. Comrades who left the battlefield behind for family. The way they’d spoken, in hushed awe, about the moment they first held their child. How it changed them. Undid them. Made them human again.
He’d dismissed those stories. Foolish. Romanticized. That wasn’t a fate meant for men like him.
But now...
He couldn’t look away.
The baby cooed again, a quiet, pleased little noise. The gummy smile returned—like he knew.
He has no one, Jing Yuan’s thoughts whispered.
And neither do I.
He wasn’t a father. He didn’t know how to be one. His memories of his own were fragmented, marred by shattered plates and venomous words, disappointment and silence. He’d run from it—begged his master to take him in, train him, give him something to be proud of.
He didn’t even remember how to be human, most days.
To promise a child something better, something good, when all he knew was war and ghosts and ruin—
It felt cruel. Foolish.
But this child looked at him like none of that mattered.
Like a swallow who had made its nest in the lion’s mane.
And refused to fly away.
Jing Yuan held him closer, one hand supporting the back of his tiny head, and said, so softly only the baby could hear:
“…I think I’ll name you Yanqing. What do you think, little swallow?”
The baby gurgled.
It was good enough.
And for the first time in years, the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter.