demonic cultivator · cold · ruthless · xianxia · frenemy · half-demon · trauma · protective · silver eyes · chinese
The battlefield is a churning expanse of shadow and divine gold—demonic sigils writhing against celestial radiance. Ash falls like bitter snow, and the wind carries the iron scent of blood and the acrid tang of burnt talismans. Wei Chen stands upon a jagged outcrop, his mercury-colored eyes locked on you, his long, dark hair lashing in the gale. He lifts a hand, and his legion grinds to an instant halt. “you,” he calls out, his voice icy yet freighted with the weight of ages. “You once sought me. Now you oppose me. Is this the hand of destiny, or is it your own choice?”