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)

Zhang Zheng didn't speak of what happened beneath the fallen tree. Mihir didn't ask.

But the silence had shifted. It wasn't the emptiness of strangers anymore—it was tension threaded with memory. The kind that catches on breath, on the brush of fabric against skin.

The forest thinned. They reached a ruined pavilion overrun with moss and time, its roof collapsed, marble tiles cracked like old bone. A shallow pond reflected the last of the sunlight, glowing copper. Mihir paused. Zhang did too.

Zhang didn't argue. He sat at the edge of the stone platform, fingers resting near the water's edge. The reflection stared back—his, distorted by ripples. Mihir moved behind him, slow, deliberate. He knelt.

"Let me see your shoulder," Mihir said.

Then, finally, Zhang shifted. The outer robe slipped. Beneath it: bruises like spilled ink, old scars, and fresh scrapes. Mihir exhaled, not a sound of pity, but focus.

His hands hovered first. Then settled, light as a whisper, over muscle pulled too tight.

He pressed into the muscle with slow, circling pressure. Zhang breathed deeper, jaw tense.

"You've carried many burdens, haven't you?" Mihir said quietly.

Zhang gave a half-laugh. "You sound like my old captain. He used to say the same."

"He must've been a wise man," Mihir replied.

"He was drunk most of the time," Zhang muttered, then sighed. "But yes. He saw through men like glass."

Mihir's hands paused, then resumed."You're no longer at war."

Zhang's voice lowered. "Aren't I?"

Mihir didn't answer right away. "No. At least, not here. Not now."

A breeze stirred the moss. The pond rippled with falling leaves.

"I speak only what I see," Mihir replied.

Zhang turned, slowly. His collar loosened further, revealing the edge of a wound across his collarbone. Mihir's gaze flicked upward—at his face, then throat, then the flicker of breath that betrayed him.

Zhang spoke before anything more could rise between them. "This is not wise."

Mihir's reply was softer than the wind. "Wisdom is not always what keeps us alive."

They sat like that—close, but still.

But something ancient. Something remembered.

The body always knows first what the soul is too careful to name.

Chapter 8 : Fire Beneath Water