So i just had this idea may I request Blade and Jing Yuan (separately) with a reader that is a different human-like species from another planet/ship but on her home planet her species is one of two and for reasons her kind does not know, they are hated and looked down upon so maybe after an incident that involved the unjust death of her family member she flees her old home (& onto the loufu in jing yuan's case) BUT lo and behold her kind actually possesses exceptional healing powers one of which she discovers allows her to temporarily reverse the effects of the mara struck (like she can reverse the person's body back to the way it was before but it's possible for them to fall to the mara again)
Fleeting Wholeness
Tags: Blade x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Platonic, Redemption, Tragic Past, Betrayal, Vengeance, Emotional Bond, Trauma Recovery, Light Angst, Protective Figures.
Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death Of Family Member, Trauma, Temporary Healing, Emotional Distress, Mentions Of Torture, Psychological Strain, Self-Harm Implications.
The smell of iron and smoke clings to the air long after the battle ends.
You find Blade among the debris, his sword buried in the chest of a long-felled foe. His body is torn open in places no living thing should survive. Yet his chest rises, slow and steady, as if death itself has grown weary of chasing him.
He senses you before he sees you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he rasps, voice low, each word a crack across dry stone.
You step closer anyway. You’ve grown used to the way his tone cuts — the warning threaded with exhaustion rather than malice. His blood has already begun to crawl back toward his wounds, threads of red like molten silk stitching him back together. Still, there’s a tremor to it, a delay, as if his body resists its own revival.
“I told Kafka I’d check on you,” you say softly. “And besides, you’re worse than usual.”
He laughs — a sound that has no joy, no life. “You think I can be worse? There’s no worse for what I am.”
You kneel beside him, fingers brushing the cracked surface of his blade. The weapon hums faintly, resonating with something inside him — or perhaps inside you. “You keep saying that,” you murmur. “But you’re still here.”
His eyes lift to yours — red, sharp, alive in a way that almost frightens you. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re not cursed to live forever. You don’t hear the screams every time you close your eyes.”
You don’t flinch. “No,” you admit. “But I know what it’s like to lose everything for something you never chose.”
That earns you silence. A long one.
He knows the story — or at least the edges of it. Your home, your kind, hated for reasons lost to history. The riots. The night your sibling (or parents) died because someone thought your blood was a stain on the street. The way you ran, the way you never looked back.
You don’t remember when you first discovered it — the pulse of power under your palms when you tried to stop someone’s bleeding, the light that sparked when you begged the universe to let them live. But you remember what it did to Blade the first time.
It was on a night like this — after a fight he shouldn’t have survived, when even his cursed body refused to knit itself back together. You reached out without thinking, pressed your hands against his broken ribs, and the world turned white. For a heartbeat, you felt time flow backward — cells reforming, veins closing, the scent of death reversing itself. He woke in shock, gasping like someone who’d drowned.
You both knew it was temporary. The mara always returned. But for a moment, you had made him whole again.
“Let me help you,” you whisper now, hand hovering near his chest.
He grabs your wrist, not hard, but firm enough that you feel the desperation in it. “Don’t.”
“Blade—”
“Don’t waste it on me.” His gaze is fierce. “You don’t know what it does to you. Every time you use that power, it eats at you. I can feel it.”
You hesitate. He’s not wrong. The first time left you dizzy. The second time bled the color from your skin for days. The last time, you blacked out for nearly a week. But you can’t stand to watch him like this — his breath shallow, his expression flickering between agony and numbness.
“I’m not doing this for you,” you say, voice trembling but certain. “I’m doing this because I can’t stand the thought of letting pain win again.”
He releases your wrist slowly. His eyes fall shut.
You press your palm to his chest.
Light spills out like water through cracks. The world seems to hold its breath — every sound fading, every particle of dust suspended in the golden glow that pours from your hands. The blood on his skin reverses course, crawling back into closed wounds. His torn flesh smooths over, pale and clean. The cracks in his sword hum, resonating with the pulse of your heartbeat.
And for a moment, you feel something vast and ancient brush your mind — a sorrow older than stars, wrapped in the shape of a man who once called himself Yingxing.
When it’s done, you fall backward, gasping. Blade catches you without thinking, his newly healed arms steady despite the tremor in his fingers.
“Fool,” he mutters, though the word lacks its usual edge. “You’ll burn yourself out one day.”
You smile weakly. “Then I guess we’ll both be chasing the end, won’t we?”
His expression darkens, but he doesn’t let go. You both sit there in the aftermath — a soldier who cannot die, and a wanderer who keeps bringing life where it doesn’t belong.
The stars stretch endlessly above, cold and sharp. For once, Blade doesn’t look toward them with hate. His gaze lingers on you instead — the faint shimmer of light still clinging to your skin, the ghost of warmth that shouldn’t exist in his world.
“Do you regret it?” he asks quietly. “Leaving your home?”
You think for a moment. “Sometimes. But if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met you.”
He looks away sharply. “That’s not a gift.”
“Maybe not,” you agree. “But it’s real.”
He doesn’t answer, and you don’t press. The silence between you is heavy, but not hollow. You know he’ll fight again tomorrow, bleed again, fall again. You know you’ll heal him again until the power burns through the last of your strength.
But for now — for this fleeting, fragile moment — you’ve reversed not just his wounds, but the inevitability of his curse. And in that heartbeat of peace, even Blade seems human again.
When the Xianzhou Luofu first came into view — you thought it might be heaven.
You’d been running for days. Your transport vehicle was half-broken, your mind worse. The flames that had devoured your home still haunted your dreams, the faces of those who called your kind cursed flickering like ghosts in every reflection.
You didn’t expect kindness when you landed. You didn’t expect an audience with the Arbiter-General himself.
“Another refugee,” the guards had said. “Species unknown.”
But Jing Yuan had looked at you — truly looked — and said, “They’re just someone who made it out alive. That’s reason enough to let them stay.”
That was years ago.
Now, you walk through the courtyard of the Seat of Divine Foresight, the scent of tea and rain mixing with the faint hum of the Cloud Knights training nearby. Jing Yuan sits beneath a tree, Snowmoon — the lion — dozing beside him. His eyes are closed, but you know better than to think he’s asleep.
“You’re late,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips.
“You said sunset,” you reply. “The sun’s still half up.”
“That’s precisely why you’re late.”
You roll your eyes and sit across from him. He pours you tea — calm, unhurried. There’s something about his movements that always steadies you, even when your thoughts are storms.
“How’s your work with the healers’ division?” he asks.
“Progressing. Slowly.” You hesitate. “I… discovered something new.”
He looks up, intrigued. “Oh?”
You glance around, making sure no one’s nearby, then lower your voice. “It’s about the mara-struck soldiers. I can… reverse it. Temporarily.”
The teacup pauses halfway to his lips. His eyes sharpen — thoughtful, not startled. “Reverse it?”
You nod. “Their minds stay fragile, but their bodies— I can pull them back, at least for a time. It doesn’t last, but it’s enough to help them recover.”
For a long moment, Jing Yuan says nothing. You can see the weight of it settle in his posture — the way his shoulders tighten just slightly under the layers of calm he wears like armor.
Finally, he sets his cup down. “You’ve done something extraordinary.”
“I’m not sure if it’s good,” you admit. “It takes a toll. And if people find out what I am…”
“They won’t,” he interrupts gently. “Not while I draw breath.”
The promise is quiet but immovable. You know he doesn’t make such things lightly. The warmth that flickers in your chest almost hurts.
Later that week, you find him standing over a mara-struck soldier. The man’s body convulses with the crimson corruption that eats through his veins, his eyes clouded by madness. Jing Yuan’s hand hovers near his weapon, ready to strike — mercy through death.
“Wait,” you say, stepping forward.
He doesn’t stop you.
You kneel beside the soldier, pressing your palms to his chest. The power answers instantly — a pulse like lightning beneath your skin. Golden light floods out, wrapping the man in a cocoon of warmth. His breathing slows. The crimson threads retreat, replaced by pale clarity. When you pull back, he’s asleep — peaceful for the first time in years.
You look up, panting. “It worked.”
Jing Yuan kneels beside you, his expression unreadable. “And what did it cost you?”
You open your mouth, then close it again. The truth sits heavy on your tongue. “Just a little,” you lie.
He doesn’t call you out — not directly. Instead, he helps you to your feet, his hand steady at your elbow. “You remind me of someone,” he murmurs.
“Who?”
“An old friend. Someone who carried too much for too long.”
You glance at him. “Did they find peace?”
A pause. “No. But they helped others find it.”
He smiles faintly — the kind that never reaches his eyes.
Over the following months, you work beside him more often — helping those touched by mara, studying its patterns, creating temporary reprieves for the afflicted. Jing Yuan watches over you silently, never interfering, but always there when the exhaustion hits. Sometimes he finds you asleep in the infirmary, a blanket draped over your shoulders before you wake. Sometimes you catch him staring into the distance, eyes shadowed with something like guilt.
One night, during a storm that shakes the Luofu’s sky, you find him in his office— staring at an old portrait of the High-Cloud Quintet members. His hand rests against the image of a man with dark hair and tired violet eyes.
“That’s him, isn’t it?” you ask softly. “Blade.”
He doesn’t turn. “Yingxing,” he corrects, voice quiet. “He was once one of us.”
You step closer. “You miss him.”
“I miss the person he was.” His tone softens. “The one who could still laugh.”
You hesitate, then say, “Maybe… maybe I can help him, too.”
At that, he finally looks at you. “Don’t,” he says, almost sharply. “His mara runs deeper than most. You’d burn yourself out before you even touched it.”
“But if there’s a chance—”
“There isn’t.” His voice cracks, and for once, the calm unravels. “Some things can’t be undone, no matter how pure your heart or how powerful your gift.”
The silence that follows feels endless. Outside, thunder rolls like the grief of the stars.
You bow your head. “Then I’ll keep helping the ones I can.”
He exhales, long and tired, and when he looks at you again, it’s with something like pride — and sorrow intertwined. “That’s all anyone can do,” he murmurs. “Even gods.”
As the storm fades, you sit together in the quiet — two people bound by loss, by duty, by an understanding that healing and pain often walk hand in hand. Jing Yuan’s hand rests briefly on your shoulder — a rare gesture of comfort from the man who carries everyone’s burdens but his own.
“You’ve brought something precious to the Luofu,” he says. “Hope. Don’t let anyone take that from you — not even yourself.”
And for the first time since you fled your home, you believe him.
