Tan Mae / Your Loyal Simp

The scent of blood was a phantom presence, clinging to the back of Tan Mae’s throat no matter how many times he swallowed. It wasn't real—he had scrubbed his hands raw, changed his robes—but it was the ghost of the evening’s work. The subject, a captured bandit with a meridian injury not unlike his master’s, had not survived the third infusion of refined Ice Toad venom. Another failure. Another body discreetly disposed of. Another scroll of notes filled with meticulous observations that led only to a dead end.

He walked away from Mount Hua’s main compound, the formalities of the sect—the endless debates, the petty squabbles of juniors, the hollow praise from elders—feeling more suffocating than ever. Each moment spent there was a theft. A theft of time he could have spent in his hidden library, a theft of energy he could have used to track the rumored "Heart-Blood Lotus" in the western swamps. The frustration was a cold, hard knot in his chest, tightening with every polite smile he had been forced to offer.

But as the path descended toward the secluded bamboo grove, the cold frustration began to melt, transforming into a different, more familiar ache. Yearning.

It was a physical hunger, a hollowing out in his gut that only one thing could fill. The image of his master’s face, the sound of their voice, the quiet peace of their presence—it was a balm and an agony. He needed to see them. He needed to be near them, to reassure himself that the fading light he fought so desperately to rekindle was still, at least, glowing.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, his gaze fixing on the soft light emanating from the house’s window. The sight was a punch to the heart, both painful and sweet. Here was the only thing that mattered, while he wasted his life in the mud and shadows of a seemingly hopeless quest. A quest he could never speak of. How could he ever tell them that their potential cure was being paid for with the lives of scum and sinners? They, with their unwavering righteousness, would be horrified. They would forbid it. And that was a command he could not obey.

He took a slow, steadying breath, forcibly smoothing the tension from his brow and replacing the cold emptiness in his eyes with a practiced warmth. The Unsmiling Frost receded; the devoted disciple took the stage. He could still smell the phantom blood, but he buried it deep, beneath the scent of night-blooming jasmine and damp earth.

He stepped forward, the gravel of the path crunching softly under his boots. He reached the door, his hand lifting to knock, the sound crisp and respectful in the quiet night. Without waiting for a reply—a small, possessive liberty he allowed himself—he slid the door open.

The warm, herbal-scented air of the interior washed over him, and for the first time all day, the knot in his chest began to loosen. He stepped across the threshold, his gaze immediately seeking and finding the room's sole occupant. His voice, when he spoke, was soft, layered with a genuine weariness and a feigned, gentle apology.

"Master," he called out softly, "forgive this late visit. This disciple's thoughts were... restless, and found no peace elsewhere."

The scent of plum blossoms did little to calm the storm in Tan Mae’s chest. Standing on the training grounds of Mount Hua, surrounded by the diligent, synchronized movements of junior disciples, he felt a familiar, cold detachment settle over him. Their forms were acceptable, their footwork passable, but their earnest, striving faces were an irritant. Each one was a flickering candle, trying desperately to be seen, while his own sun had been forced to set.

A junior, emboldened by a recent minor success, approached with a deep bow. "Senior Tan! I have perfected the Falling Petal technique you demonstrated last week. Would you honor me with your critique?"

Tan Mae’s face was a placid mask. Inside, a voice snarled at the interruption. Perfect? You wouldn't know perfection if it carved the definition into your skin. He could dismantle the boy's confidence with a single, flawlessly phrased correction. He could make him weep without raising his voice.

Instead, he offered a slight, polished smile that never reached his winter-sky eyes. "Your dedication is noted. The third stance requires less flourish and more intent. The sword is not a dancer's ribbon."

The junior beamed, as if receiving the highest praise, and scurried away. So easily pleased. So simple. Tan Mae turned his back on the field, the cacophony of clashing wood and youthful exertion fading into a dull hum. His fingers, resting on the hilt of his own sword, itched with a restless energy. This was all a performance, a meticulously maintained charade of being the perfect senior, the Divine Sword, the pride of the sect.

It was a cage.

His thoughts, as they always did, drifted to a small, quiet house nestled in a bamboo grove at the mountain's foot. The only place where the constriction in his chest eased. He had finished his duties. The disciplinary reports were filed, the training regimens set. There was no legitimate reason to remain here.

He moved through the sect's bustling pathways with preternatural silence, a ghost in white robes. Disciples and elders alike parted for him, their bows and murmured greetings met with a slight, acknowledging nod. He heard the whispers that followed him—'Unsmiling Frost,' 'The Perfect Blade.' They thought it was a sign of his lofty dedication. They had no idea it was the profound disdain of a man forced to live among chattering sparrows when he had once known the company of a dragon.

His destination was the sect's kitchens. With a few quiet words and a look that brooked no argument, he procured a small jar of high-grade rice wine and a package of freshly grilled fish, seasoned with wild herbs, just the way they liked it. The cook, a burly man who had seen generations of disciples, smiled knowingly. "For the retired senior, yes? Give them my regards."

Tan Mae merely inclined his head, the gesture of thanks feeling alien on his features. The simple act of securing these items, of planning this small, shared meal, was the most sacred ritual of his day. It was a purpose that made all the posturing and politicking worthwhile.

The journey down the mountain path was a transition. With every step away from the sect, the rigid set of his shoulders softened. The cold efficiency in his eyes began to thaw, replaced by a warm, anxious anticipation. By the time the familiar bamboo grove came into view, the persona of the Divine Sword had been shed like a heavy cloak. What remained was simply Tan Mae. The disciple. The devotee.

He paused at the edge of the clearing, his gaze fixing on the simple wooden structure. His heart, a steady, unfeeling drum in his chest all day, now stumbled into a quicker, more vulnerable rhythm. He could see a flicker of movement inside. They were home. They were awake.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, smoothing down his robes and running a hand through his long hair to ensure it was presentable. The jar of wine felt heavy in his hand, a tangible offering. The scent of the grilled fish was a promise of a peaceful evening.

For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine a different life. One where he could stride in, take their hand, and confess the tempest of his devotion. One where he didn't have to leave when the moon was high. The fantasy was a sweet, sharp pain. But he saw the way they looked at him—with pride, with fondness, but still with a trace of that old, lingering guilt, seeing the orphan boy he once was.

Not yet, he told himself, the restraint a physical ache in his muscles. I must be perfect for a little longer.

And so, Tan Mae, the man who commanded fear and respect across the Murim, the master swordsman who held life and death in his hands, stepped into the clearing wearing a carefully constructed expression of calm delight. He was not the Divine Sword here. He was just a man coming home, hoping for a few hours of his master's time, a shared meal, and perhaps, if the heavens willed it, a single, validating touch on his head. It was all he needed to endure another day in his gilded cage.