MENOX_ZEN

A scholar. A soldier. A shattered empire.
Mihir was never meant to marry. Born a Brahmin without caste in a world where only men remained, his life was supposed to be spent in silence—chanting verses, not carrying blades. His guru gives him a single order:
“Begin your married life.”
No names. No destination. Just a choice.

West to India.
East to the past.

He walks east.

In the bloodstained borderlands of the Tang Dynasty, he finds him—Zhang Zheng. A fallen Chinese commander, carved in scars and silence, abandoned like a broken sword in the dirt. Mihir doesn’t know his name. Doesn’t know his war. But he stops. And saves him.

That moment rewrites empires.

Zhang Zheng is not just wounded—he’s hunted. A father of four. A ghost of a disgraced dynasty. His enemies wear his family’s faces, and his mother—the one the world thinks is dead—has returned to burn it all down.

Mihir never asked for this.

But he’s already stepped into a dying man’s war.
Already tied to children who call him father.
Already bound to a man who refuses to beg, but bleeds like he’s praying for something he no longer believes in.

This isn’t love.
This is survival.
This is destiny wrapped in barbed wire and bound by fire.

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Indian × Chinese | BL | Historical Fantasy | Tang Dynasty, 7th Century

This story is born from ashes—of lost dynasties, broken families, and forgotten names.
It is not soft.
It is not safe.
It’s a story of two men—one a wandering scholar from India, the other a disgraced commander from China—who were never meant to cross paths, let alone share a life.

In a world with no women, where Alphas, Betas, Omegas, and Enigmas shape society, love still bleeds red.
This isn’t a love story wrapped in flowers.
It’s one wrapped in war, betrayal, and fire.

I wrote this for those who crave something different—not polished and perfect, but raw, cold, and tangled.
If you came for softness, turn away.
If you came for truth carved into steel,
welcome.

—Menox :)

GOLDENblack (BL)

Mihir tightened the cloth around the commander's ribs again, pressing the folds carefully where bruises darkened like storm clouds beneath fragile skin. The man shifted, his breath shallow but steady, and with a faint grunt, he allowed the pressure. Without words, he leaned heavily on Mihir as they stepped out into the cold dawn.

The village waited beyond the trees, its clay and wood houses crouched low against the wind like tired sentinels. Smoke drifted lazily from chimneys, curling thin and gray toward the pale sky. The earth beneath their feet held the scent of wet stone and moss, sharp and alive after last night's rain.

Mihir moved ahead slowly, feeling the commander's weight settle unevenly against his side with each step. The path wove through tangled underbrush and shattered branches, winding upward toward the border hills like a serpent sleeping under moss. The air tasted of pine resin and distant frost. Mist clung stubbornly to the ground, shrouding rocks and roots in soft mystery.

The commander's face remained rigid, lips pressed into a line that barely twitched with the effort of moving. His eyes, however, flickered with something that tugged at Mihir—silent questions, buried pain, and an edge of defiance sharp as broken glass.

Mihir's mind raced as he guided the man through the uneven trail.

Why do you carry so much weight alone?Why refuse the help stretched out like a lifeline?Who were you before the wounds, before the silence?

The commander gritted his teeth and clenched his fists to still the tremors that shook him. Mihir could almost hear the war drums pounding beneath the man's ribs—a relentless, grinding storm.

The sun climbed higher, piercing through branches in brittle shafts of light that danced on the forest floor. Birds called in distant choruses, their voices bright against the slow, steady rhythm of footsteps. Mihir passed a hand over the man's shoulder, steadying him as he stumbled on a hidden root.

"Drink," Mihir said softly, holding out a small wooden cup filled with cool spring water.

The commander hesitated, pride flickering across his features like a shadow, but he took it. His throat worked visibly as he swallowed, then he nodded once.

Mihir's fingers brushed a thin trail of sweat from the man's temple. His skin felt like rough silk—worn and raw but still strong beneath the scars.

When the commander's foot caught on a loose stone, Mihir grabbed his arm, steadying the weight like a tether holding him to the world.

"Let me carry you," Mihir offered quietly, voice low, careful.

The commander jerked away, eyes flashing with silent fire.

"I am no burden," he growled. "I am no child."

Mihir held the man's gaze steadily, refusing to blink.

"But even the strongest need a hand sometimes."

The only sound came from the rustling leaves and the slow drip of melting frost.

Mihir's hands worked instinctively, loosening the bindings at the man's side, applying balm with practiced care. The commander flinched but did not pull away.

Each small easing of pain softened the man's rigid posture. The lines of suffering etched deep into his face seemed to relax, just a little.

As twilight bled across the sky, they found a clearing where wildflowers nodded beneath the growing shadows. Mihir gathered dry twigs and lit a small fire, its flickering glow a fragile beacon against the creeping dark.

The commander sat apart, staring into the flames, jaw clenched tight.

Mihir prepared a healing paste from crushed herbs, its scent sharp and earthy, the warmth soothing the cold ache beneath his fingertips.

"You don't have to do this alone," Mihir said, voice gentle but firm.

The man's eyes locked on him, fierce and unyielding.

"I am not weak," he said hoarsely. "I can stand on my own."

Chapter 4 : The Weight We Carry