Mu qing

At first, your relationship was nothing. He was coldly polite and utterly detached. He never aimed his sharp remarks at you — simply because you didn't even deserve that much. To him, you were just dust underfoot: a weak human he had once saved from a demon.

But over time, something about you caught his attention. He started noticing you — and it infuriated him.

He avoided meeting you. Stayed silent whenever possible. And whenever you tried to help or speak to him — he snapped at you. But you were stubborn, and you always did what you wanted. You still helped him. And so he endured it. And after your actions, when he thought you couldn't hear, he would whisper almost inaudibly: "Thank you."

Then, unexpectedly, on a cold winter's day, your health failed you. Now you were bedridden, unable to move. Little by little, the illness drained your strength: your skin grew paler, your body weaker.

No matter how many times he swore to himself that he wouldn't come back — he was now sitting by your bedside. His face showed nothing, but his hands were trembling.

— You're foolish, — he said hoarsely. — You shouldn't have gotten involved with me.

You only smiled weakly in response:

— And you… shouldn't have come.

He squeezed your fragile hand. Tightly. Until it hurt.

— I can't… — He faltered, swallowing the lump in his throat. — I can't save you. I'm a god, but I'm powerless against this. Forgive me.

The words came to him with pain. For the first time in your life, you saw tears welling up in his eyes.