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 household had hardly recovered from the commotion when the Lu family arrived. The sun had just tilted westward, casting long amber shadows across the courtyard stones. In the golden haze, the Lu clan descended like silk-clad shadows — elegant, perfumed, and dangerous.

At their head walked Lu Qinian (魯祈年).

A man carved by intention, not nature — everything about him was polished, refined, and insidious. His eyes, long-lashed and dark, bore no warmth. They moved slowly, like a scholar's brush, drinking in the Zhang household with quiet judgment. His skin was pale as morning snow, untouched by sun or struggle. He wore robes dyed a deep vermilion, embroidered in twisting gold serpents that shimmered as he walked. A jade pendant nestled in the hollow of his throat, identical to the one Zhang's stepmother wore.

He bowed low, the tips of his sleeves brushing the ground. "So this is the hero's courtyard," he said, voice soft, like lotus petals sliding over ice.

Zhang Zheng stood stiffly beside Mihir, silent.

Behind Lu Qinian came his entourage — his aging father Lu Chengsong (魯承嵩), a retired court poet with a curved smile and voice like ink; his aunt Madam Yun (雲氏), whose brows were painted like knives and whose greetings dripped with double-meaning; and two guards who flanked them like mute statues.

Mihir stayed behind, unannounced, unnoticed — or so they let him believe. He stood near the plum tree, in humble robes the color of old incense ash. His eyes locked with Lu Qinian's for a brief moment. Something sharp passed between them. A weighing. A warning.

"Is the general unwell?" Madam Yun asked. "He seems… quieter than we were told."

Zhang did not answer. His eyes briefly flicked to Mihir — as if anchoring himself.

Lu Qinian stepped closer, holding out a lacquered box. "Candied lotus from the capital. For the children. And perhaps… a taste of sweetness for the general's household, if not his heart."

He brushed Zhang's sleeve. Gently. Deliberately. And did not immediately let go.

Mihir turned away, jaw tightening.

In that quiet moment, a storm was seeded.

Later that evening, the household bustled with shallow courtesies and hollow laughter. Servants rushed, candles flickered, tea was poured. But Mihir, watching from afar, felt it deep in his bones:

This man had not come to marry Zhang.

He had come to conquer him.

And Mihir — still technically a guest — was standing in the way.

Chapter 17: A Snake in Silk Robes