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)

The path to the border hills twisted through thickets of pine and forgotten ridges. The man—Zhang, as Mihir had finally learned—walked with a limp he didn't acknowledge. He wore silence like armor, letting it speak louder than words.

Mihir followed behind at first, keeping a watchful eye. But curiosity, like river mist, was impossible to hold back. And so, as they rested beneath a wind-worn cedar, Mihir let his gaze linger.

Zhang was facing away, shirt discarded and sweat glistening across his spine. His body was lean, all angles and sinew—sculpted not by vanity, but by war. Each muscle seemed to carry memory. Each scar, a chapter untold.

There was a long cut across his ribs, jagged and still pink. Arrow wound, Mihir guessed. Older, fainter scars crossed his shoulders like faded brushstrokes—some wide and cruel, others precise, almost ceremonial. A soldier's body. And yet not just a soldier. There was restraint in the way Zhang moved, as if he measured every step to not wake something sleeping inside him.

When he finally turned, catching Mihir staring, Mihir didn't look away.

Zhang's face was not classically beautiful. It was something older. A face carved from stone—angular jaw, eyes like ink spilled in still water, and a mouth perpetually set in unreadable calm. His lashes were thick and deceptively gentle, framing a gaze that had clearly once commanded men and silenced rooms.

There was something almost tragic about him. Not in the pitiful sense, but in the way ancient statues looked—proud, poised, and touched by ruin.

Mihir pretended to adjust his satchel.

"You move like a general," he said casually.

Instead, he knelt by a nearby stream, cupped water in his scarred hands, and let it trickle through his fingers like sand. The sun caught on the droplets, painting tiny stars across his skin.

Mihir watched him for a long moment. Then, almost to himself, he whispered,

"You must've once burned bright enough to blind the sky."

But it was enough to see something flicker in his eyes.

Not pride. Not pain. Something in between.

But Mihir now knew the shape of the man beside him—not just in body, but in presence.

And for the first time since crossing into Tang, he felt the pull of the stars again.

Wrapped in flesh and silence and shadow.

Chapter 6 : The Quiet Strength