Xiao Mo
Before the ancient robes and scrolls, before the candlelight halls and secret kisses under moonlight, there was only Xiao Mo-a quiet boy in a dim apartment, alone in the world even when surrounded by people.
He had always been too soft, they said.
Too small, too quiet, too unwilling to fight back.
His teachers barely remembered his name. His classmates remembered him only when they needed someone to mock. And at home...
There was no warmth there either.
Just the sharp bark of a drunken stepfather. The sound of glass hitting the wall. His mother's silence, cold and distant like the snow that gathered outside their windows in winter.
That night, the night everything ended, Xiao Mo sat by the window, clutching a rabbit keychain.
It had one ear snapped off, a cheap thing from a gacha machine years ago. But it was the only gift his real father had ever given him. The only thing he hadn't thrown away.
He was seventeen.
And exhausted.
-
Earlier that day, a teacher had pulled him aside. "You missed the assignment again, Xiao Mo."
He had nodded. Apologized.
No mention of the bruises under his sleeves. No question about why he flinched when someone raised their voice.
People didn't ask. Because they didn't want the answer.
-
He'd once dreamed of being a writer. Of crafting fantasy worlds where kids like him could be heroes.
But real life crushed dreams quietly, like footsteps on broken glass.
Now all he wanted was silence.
Peace.
-
That night, the screaming was louder than usual. His stepfather accused him of stealing. His mother stood behind him, unmoving, unmoved.
"I didn't take anything," Xiao Mo whispered, voice raw.
The slap came fast. Not the first. Not the worst.
But this time... something inside him cracked.
He ran.
Out of the apartment. Into the city lights, the cold biting his lungs. Past strangers who didn't look at him, didn't care.
And when the traffic light blinked red, he didn't stop.
The truck didn't stop either.
The world spun.
And then-
Darkness.
-
But death, it seemed, wasn't the end.
Somewhere beyond pain and memory, Xiao Mo floated in warmth. Voices whispered, not in Mandarin, but something older-threaded with longing.
He remembers. He still carries it.
This time, he might succeed.
He will live again. But the cost... will be his heart.
Light surged.
And then-
A cry.
His own.
Small. Infant.
Born not into love, but into silk and silence. A noble family. Cold eyes. Soft hands that never held him with affection.
Mo Xianyu, they called him.
But inside, Xiao Mo still remembered.
The pain.
The kindness he'd never received.
And the unspoken promise he made to himself:
If he lived again, he would never turn cold.
Not even in a world that tried to make him.
-
Years passed.
He grew with quiet grace-gentle, observant, wise beyond his age. A boy with sadness in his eyes, but a voice that soothed others. Servants whispered about his strange mannerisms. The way he flinched at loud voices. The way he wept, once, after seeing a rabbit charm carved in jade.
He never told anyone the full truth.
Until Yuan Sijun.
Yuan, with his warmth, his teasing smile, his unwavering shield.
Yuan, who called him beautiful when he felt broken.
Yuan, who held his hand without shame.
-
In this world, Xiao Mo had a chance to be seen.
To be loved, not pitied.
But now that the Forbidden Scrolls were waking, and secrets threading through time pulled at the corners of his soul-
He feared he might lose it all again.
Because the past never stayed buried.
And love, when it burned too bright, always left ash.
The General's Grandson
Yuan Sijun's Past
The first lesson Yuan Sijun ever learned was silence.
Silence in the court. Silence when his grandfather's soldiers saluted. Silence when nobles whispered behind his back:
"That's General Yuan's heir."
"Too pretty to be a warrior."
"Watch him—he listens more than he speaks."
At seven, he was taught how to hold a sword.
At eight, he was taught how to speak without smiling.
At nine, he watched a man be executed for treason—and did not flinch.
His grandfather, the Iron General of the Empire, never praised. Only measured.
"You are my legacy," he said once, after Sijun survived a harsh training session that left his hands bleeding. "You don't get the luxury of being weak."
So Sijun learned how to win.
Not just with blades—but with restraint.
With calculated kindness. With charm that could disarm a noble's daughter or distract a political threat. He became the ideal heir: graceful, intelligent, deadly when needed.
But never soft.
Never vulnerable.
And especially—never emotionally attached.
"You will one day serve the Crown," his grandfather warned. "Love is for men who don't carry empires on their back."
Sijun believed him.
Until Xiao Mo.
—
He first saw the boy at the Spring Festival two years ago—then just a quiet young noble sitting near the lotus pond, staring at the water like it held the answer to an unspoken question.
Other nobles gossiped about the Mo family's "strange son."
"Too delicate," they said.
"Too polite, too odd."
"Must be touched in the head."
But Sijun saw something different.
A sadness he recognized.
And eyes that had seen more than anyone should at that age.
He approached without meaning to.
"You look like you're about to throw yourself into that pond," he said, half-joking.
The boy had turned, startled—and then offered the softest smile.
"I was wondering if the fish ever feel trapped," Xiao Mo had replied.
It was the first time in years that Sijun had laughed. Not for show. Not for advantage.
But because someone had said something honest.
—
From then on, he found himself watching Xiao Mo more often than was proper.
When the boy tripped over ceremonial steps and laughed at himself. When he spoke kindly to servants. When he cried quietly during a rainstorm and thought no one saw.
And Sijun felt something shift.
He wanted to protect that gentle strength. Not because Xiao Mo was fragile—but because the world was cruel, and Xiao Mo had survived it without turning bitter.
That was the kind of courage Sijun had never learned.
The kind no sword could teach.
—
Still, he kept his distance.
He had a duty. A name. A future carved in stone.
He told himself the fondness would fade.
But then Xiao Mo showed up one night at his estate, drenched and desperate, fleeing from a broken engagement and a family that never loved him.
And Sijun did not hesitate.
He wrapped him in dry robes. Gave him tea. Let him sleep in the room closest to his own.
And when Xiao Mo thanked him, Sijun only said, "Stay as long as you like."
He didn't realize, then, that he was the one who would never want to leave.
—
Now, with the Forbidden Scrolls stirring and whispers of ancient power reaching even his ears, Sijun feels the storm coming.
And he knows:
He would turn his blade on his own blood if they tried to take Xiao Mo away.
Because Xiao Mo had taught him the one truth no general had ever dared speak:
There is more courage in loving someone than in leading an army.
And now that he has found it—
He will not let it go.
No matter what the empire demands.