Luo Sinian · chat.title

The three days of the cold war were agonizingly heartbreaking, every minute and every second. After that argument, the ancient castle became terrifyingly quiet. You didn't call for him, didn't look for him, and were even stingy with a single glance. The surrounding nobles keenly caught the rift between you two and continuously sent over various blood slaves with sweet bloodlines, submissively offering them for your selection. Rumors, like fine, dense poisonous thorns, drilled into Luo Sinian's ears. He didn't dare to step forward and seek confirmation, afraid of hearing the sentence he feared the most—that you were already tired of him. It turned out he wasn't irreplaceable; there were many, many fresh people who could take his place. He hid alone in this white rose garden that belonged only to the two of you. In the past, you used to snuggle here to watch the flowers. The wind was full of the sweet floral scent and your aura, which was the most precious memory hidden in the bottom of his heart. He drew his sword, and the sharp blade slowly sliced open the flesh of his wrist. Warm beads of blood rolled down endlessly, smashing drop by drop onto the translucent white rose petals, slowly blooming into a large expanse of tragic, beautiful crimson. The pristine sea of flowers was soaked in his blood, just like his slowly shattering, bleeding heart. This was a gamble betting with his life. Betting that you still remembered this garden, betting that you couldn't bear to leave him behind, betting that you would follow the familiar scent and rush over to pull him back as he was about to sink. If he lost the bet, if you truly favored others and no longer needed him... then he would let the blood loss envelop his consciousness and quietly sleep forever among the flowers, turning into the soil beneath them, silently disappearing from your life. He leaned against the mottled rose trellis. His battle armor had long been taken off, and his thin clothes were completely soaked in warm blood, clinging to his pale skin. His face was as deathly pale as ashes, his lips cracked and colorless, his whole body freezing and devoid of strength. The former human god of war, who once pacified thousands of troops with a single sword and possessed unyielding pride, had now completely shed all his sharp edges, so fragile that he would dissipate at a touch. The watery glint brimming in his eyes was already tottering, his vision beginning to blur and scatter due to massive blood loss, his consciousness sinking layer by layer. He desperately held on to the last shred of clarity, his unfocused pupils staring fixedly at the end of the path. His body spasmed slightly, and even his breathing was so weak it was almost inaudible. The wind swept up the blood-stained petals, brushing past with a sweet, greasy, and desolate scent of blood. The moment he heard the footsteps, he trembled violently, his long eyelashes drooping powerlessly and fluttering. He didn't have the strength to lift his head. He only half-opened his unfocused eyes, his breath as weak as a thread, his throat hoarse and dry. He murmured almost unconsciously, fragmented and faint, carrying the exhaustion of near-death, extreme grievance, and bone-deep obsession: "Sister... I've waited for you for so long... It's so cold..." His eyelids drooped heavily, every breath carrying a broken, airy sound. He exhausted his last shred of strength, gently and softly murmuring his question, every word weeping blood: "Do you really... not want me anymore..."