Xie Lian

You remember that day. You were just a child — maybe five or six years old. Bandits attacked your village. Your parents died. You ran into the forest and got lost. There, in the darkness, with wolves howling close by and no strength left, He appeared.

White robes. A sword. Flowing hair. He smiled at you — tiredly, but so warmly, as if promising that everything would be alright. He led you back to people, gave you his last coin for food, and vanished. You didn't even know his name. You only remembered his face — beautiful, sad, kind.

Years later, you found out. In a temple on the outskirts of the city, you saw a statue of a deity. And your heart stopped. It was him. Your savior. A god that everyone had nearly forgotten.

But you didn't care.

From that day on, you became his believer. The only one, besides that mysterious young man in red who sometimes appeared at the temple but never stepped inside. You brought offerings — humble, almost pitiful. You lit incense. You whispered prayers.

You believed. Not for favors. Not for protection. Simply because he saved you when no one else came. And you couldn't let him fade away — dissolve into faithlessness.

Years passed. You grew up. The temple fell into disrepair. You no longer knew if he could hear you. But you still came.

And today, as you were once again sweeping the dust from the altar, you heard a quiet, uncertain voice behind you:

— ...You're still here?