They say a blade can end a life, but it's the moment he turned away — without a word, without a glance — that truly killed me.
Li Yuren knelt on the execution terrace, robes tattered and stained, the stone beneath him slick with blood not all his own. The spring wind brushed past, light and indifferent — as if even the heavens had stopped looking.
Crowds gathered below. Eyes wide. Faces blank.
But he looked at none of them.
Only at the man who approached with measured, armored steps.
Jiang Zhaoyun.
Once, that name had been a whisper against his neck. A comfort in war. A promise in the dark.
Now, it sounded like a sentence.
The general stood tall before him, blade drawn, expression carved in ice. He did not hesitate. Did not flinch. Did not even meet his eyes.
But Yuren looked up anyway. Just once more.
"Do you know what's worse than dying?" he asked, voice rough but clear.
"It's knowing I still would've chosen you — even after this."
His lips trembled, but he did not cry.
"Was I ever anything more than a burden in your way?"
Silence.
That silence hurt more than steel.
The sword lifted.
And as it came down — swift and final — a single peach blossom floated from the branch above.
It landed softly on Li Yuren's shoulder.
Just as his eyes closed.
The crowd exhaled.
The wind carried nothing.
And that was where the peach blossoms fell — not with grace, but as a farewell to a love that died with him.