#self sacrificial reader

"The soul-thread is too weak."

Blood dripped from his lip where he'd bitten it, frustration overwhelming calculation. Around you, wounded scholars writhed in agony, their essence destabilized after his reckless experiment to siphon divinity.

“I can help,” you said.

He didn't look at you. “No.”

“But I—”

“No.” His voice was sharper now, cracking like ice across old stone. “Your body wasn't made for this. Your energy isn't refined. You'd burn out.”

You stepped closer, kneeling beside the blood-drenched cipher altar. “And what? Let them die?”

He finally turned, and for a moment—just a moment—his eye glowed behind the gold-etched eyepatch.

“You think I haven’t run the probability? You think I haven’t seen the consequences?” His voice dropped, bitter and fractured. “You're not a tool, damn it.”

You reached out and placed your hand over his.

“I’m not a tool. I’m a choice. Let me choose.”

Anaxa closed his eyes.

Seconds later, the room pulsed with arcane light. His voice chanted in forbidden tongue as your body trembled beside him, energy rushing into his system like a star being born inside his veins.

You blacked out halfway through the ritual.

When you woke up hours later, his coat was draped over your body. His gloved hand clutched yours tightly. His voice, just barely above a whisper:

“Don’t ever call yourself powerless again. Without you… there is no proof. There is no me.”

The tent reeked of blood and ash, and the healing grid was already flickering.

Jiaoqiu’s hand trembled as he stirred the alchemical cauldron, nine distinct broths bubbling in a complex pattern. He was running out of energy—his tail low, ears pinned back, chest rising with every restrained breath.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

His eyes opened—painful, cracked—and though he normally kept them closed, he held your gaze.

“You always come when I’m weakest.”

You smiled. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”

“No,” he murmured, setting down his fan. “The point was to protect you from this. Every time I let you give me your strength, a part of me worries you’ll burn out. Like a candle for everyone else’s fire.”

You didn’t hesitate. You sat beside the cauldron and reached for him.

“I’d rather flicker than watch you break.”

With a solemn sigh, he intertwined your fingers with his, guiding your energy into his own. The broth glowed brighter. Soldiers outside stopped groaning. The battlefield quieted.

His voice trembled, even as his wounds healed. “One day, I want to heal you too. Not just your body. But the part of you that thinks it’s only useful when it's giving.”

You leaned into his shoulder as your strength faded, smiling.

“Then we’ll keep going until you do.”

“General, the formation’s collapsing!”

Jing Yuan stood at the edge of the shattered ridge, blood dripping from his blade, cloak shredded in the wind. A dozen injured Cloud Knights groaned behind him. He had minutes. Less.

Then he felt it—warmth against his back. Familiar. Steady.

You.

“Don’t,” he said immediately, voice like rumbling thunder. “You’ve given too much today.”

“I can give more.”

He turned, his eyes tired. Not from battle—but from worry.

“You’ll collapse.”

“Better me than them.”

His fist clenched, and he looked away. “You do this every time. You rush into my shadow and light it with your soul.”

You touched his arm gently. “Because I believe in you. And because you’ve never once let that light go to waste.”

He didn’t respond for a long moment. Then he gently placed his hand over your heart.

“Promise me something.”

You blinked. “What?”

“When all this is over… when there’s peace… let me carry your burden for once.”

Your lips curved faintly as your energy surged into his form. The storm around him reignited with luminous force.

“I’d like that,” you said softly, before the light overtook you both.

“You are reckless.”

His voice echoed down the marble corridors of the ruined observatory, each word a jagged verdict.

“Don’t start,” you muttered, stumbling from exhaustion. “They needed power. I had it. You would’ve done the same.”

“I wouldn’t have nearly died doing it four times in a row,” he snapped, for once not hiding behind metaphor or philosophy. He pulled you into a chair, unwrapping your burned palms with maddening precision.

“You always say knowledge must be used, Veritas.”

“Yes. By minds capable of wielding it rationally. Not by idealists burning themselves like inefficient fuel rods!”

Your laughter was faint. “You sound scared.”

“I am,” he hissed. “You are the one equation I cannot balance. The one constant I cannot afford to lose.”

You softened.

“I don’t want to be an equation,” you whispered. “I want to be your choice.”

He paused. Then, for the first time, removed the alabaster mask himself.

“I’m not good at emotion,” he said simply. “But if I could rewrite this universe’s formula…”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You’d be the center of it.”

You passed out moments later, spent.

But when you awoke, his coat was around your shoulders, a steaming cup of nutrient broth on the table—and a newly published thesis titled:

“On the Strength of a Soul that Gives Without Asking: A Dedication.”