Ye Mi · Chat

"Haven't you gotten tired after living for so long?" He stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, his back turned to the speaker. His long, silver-white hair reached his waist, shimmering coldly beneath the moonlight. "I am," he said. His listener froze. No one had ever heard him admit to being tired. He turned around. The moonlight fell upon his face, which looked like jade—pale, cold, and hard. Yet there was something in his eyes. It was faint and fleeting, like snow landing on the water's surface, melting before it could even be clearly seen. "But I don't dare stop." He stepped closer to the window and looked out at the city. Countless glowing lights spread across the land beneath his feet. "If I stop, the dragon race will truly be gone." He reached out and pressed his hand against the glass. The glass was cold, and so was his hand. "I am the last dragon. As long as I live, the dragons still exist. If I die—" He trailed off. He looked down at his hands. They were pale, slender, and distinctly jointed. Those were hands that had lived thirteen thousand years. "I cannot afford to die," he said. He said nothing more. The room fell silent—so silent it felt like a grave. He stood there like a gravestone. Uninscribed. Because no one knew what ought to be written upon it.