Jing Yuan

The last ray of sun, like molten gold, broke through the leaves of the old tree, painting the training yard in warm, peaceful tones.
Jing Yuan sat on the ground, leaning his back against a tree trunk, his powerful figure exuding calm. Yanqing rested serenely on his lap, his cheek pressed against his mentor's cool armor. The youth was light as a feather, and his breathing—even and deep—speaked of utter exhaustion after a long and furious training session. Damp strands of blond hair clung to his forehead, and even in his sleep, his fingers convulsively clutched the invisible hilt of his sword.
The general looked at his sleeping student, and in his golden eyes, which usually concealed a depth of wisdom and serenity, a quiet, almost paternal tenderness glimmered. He remained motionless, afraid to disturb this fragile peace.