The first assassin came at midnight.
Not with stealth.
Not with silence.
With fire.
A blazing talisman struck the prison door — not to break it, but to mark it.
The symbol of the Azure Sect's Purification Bureau flared in red smoke:
🜁 — the mark of Heretic Extermination.
I woke with a needle in my hand.
Murong Yan was already at the wall, his back to me, sword unsheathed.
"They've declared you a Class-A Heretic," he said, voice flat.
"Dead or alive.
Bounty: One Soul Core of Immortal Rank."
He turned.
"Dozens will come.
Some will be strong.
Most will be desperate."
His pale eye locked onto mine.
"You should run."
I didn't move.
"Then why haven't you handed me over?"
He smiled — cold, sharp, broken.
"Because I've spent seven lifetimes doing exactly that.
And every time…
I regretted it before the ashes cooled."
The second assassin came through the ceiling.
A woman in black silk, face masked, twin daggers dripping with Nervevine Toxin — fast, paralyzing, undetectable.
She landed in a crouch.
Saw me.
Smiled.
"Lin Xiyue," she hissed. "The Poison Queen reborn.
Your death will make me a legend."
She lunged.
I reached for my vial of Ash That Whispers —
but Murong Yan moved first.
His sword didn't flash.
It sang.
A single stroke — silent, precise.
The assassin froze.
Then collapsed — not dead.
Frozen mid-motion, like a statue.
He didn't look at her.
Didn't sheathe his blade.
"I don't kill unless I must," he said.
"But I will not let them touch you."
I stared.
"You're defying the sect."
"I was never theirs," he said.
"I was yours."
And then —
he tore off his blindfold.
Not slowly.
Not dramatically.
With a single, brutal motion.
And I saw.
His left eye — pale, cold, the Void Eye that sees lies, spiritual traces, fate threads.
His right eye —
amber-gold, glowing faintly in the dark.
The same color as mine.
The same color as the Poison Queens.
I stepped back.
"No."
He didn't flinch.
"I was born with it.
Suppressed.
Sealed.
They called it a curse.
A contamination."
He stepped forward.
"But you… you call it home."
I remembered.
In my third life, there had been a boy — a servant in the imperial palace.
Silent. Watchful.
Who brought me tea every morning.
Who once said:
"Your eyes… they're like mine.
But mine are broken."
And then he was gone — executed for treason.
I had never known his name.
Now I did.
"Murong Yan," I whispered.
"You were there.
In every life.
Watching.
Protecting.
Letting them take me…
because you had no choice."
"I had a choice," he said.
"I chose to survive.
To rise.
To become strong enough to stop the cycle."
He reached into his robe.
Pulled out a small, black lotus carved from jade.
"I kept this from the third life.
You gave it to the boy who brought your tea.
You said…
'If we meet again, I'll know it's you.'"
He placed it in my hand.
"I've been waiting."
My breath caught.
Because now I understood.
He wasn't the executioner.
He wasn't even the keeper.
He was the Guardian of the Forgotten.
And he had loved me —
not once.
Not twice.
But seven times.
The third wave came at dawn.
Not one assassin.
Twelve.
Elite hunters from the Demon Edge Sect, the Void Fang Clan, the Crimson Alchemists — all drawn by the bounty.
They broke through the mountain path like a flood, weapons blazing with cursed energy.
Murong Yan stood at the entrance —
one man.
One sword.
Two eyes now open.
I moved to stand beside him.
He didn't look at me.
"Go. I'll hold them."
I drew a needle from my sleeve — dipped in Venom of the Hollow Moon.
"No."
I stepped forward.
"This time…
I protect you."
He finally turned.
And for the first time —
he smiled.
Not cold.
Not broken.
Like a man who had waited an eternity
for this moment.
"Then let's give them a show," he said.
"The Poison Queen…
and the Keeper who never let her die alone."
Author Note:
They say love is soft.
But ours?
Ours is forged in ash.
Written in blood.
And if the world tries to erase us again…
we'll burn it down — hand in hand.
— Gopalakrishna