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.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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 hour was late. Moonlight bled through the carved lattice windows of the guest wing, painting thin silver lines across the floor. Outside, the estate lay quiet—only the rustling of leaves and the soft creak of lanterns swaying in the breeze broke the silence.

But within the chambers of Lu Qinian, sleep did not come.

He lay atop pristine silk sheets, bare-chested, his robe thrown loosely over one shoulder. His long fingers rested on the edge of the lacquered bedframe, twitching slightly as if echoing thoughts he dared not speak aloud.

The day's embarrassment—the child's prank, the stares, the whispers—should have been his torment. But it wasn't. Not truly.

What haunted him, what gnawed at the edges of his composure, was Mihir.

That strange, calm man. That priest with gentle eyes and sun-darkened skin, who spoke like mountain water and moved like drifting smoke.

And the dream unfurled—slowly, luxuriously—like silk slipping off a body.

He was back in the Zhang courtyard, but empty of sound and people, bathed in an unnatural twilight. And there stood Mihir beneath the plum tree, his robe fluttering open just enough to reveal his collarbone, the dip of his throat, the taut line of his abdomen beneath linen.

The priest's hair was unbound, raven-black and long, a waterfall down his back.

Not with chastity. Not with purity.

"Qinian," he said, voice low—not soft, but husky, with the rhythm of breath before a kiss. "Have you come to offer prayers?"

"No," Qinian heard himself answer. "I've come to break vows."

Mihir didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped forward—one slow, deliberate movement at a time. The wind caught his robe, revealing his thigh, dusky and smooth beneath layers of sacred cloth.

Mihir raised his hand—not in benediction, but in invitation—and Qinian obeyed, fingers trembling as he touched the curve of Mihir's waist. Warmth radiated from him, a living heat that seeped into Qinian's skin like fire under snow.

Their foreheads touched. Then their noses. Then—

Mihir's fingers slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp. Their bodies pressed together—his silken robes soaking in the priest's warmth. Their mouths moved like they had known this shape forever.

Mihir's skin was velvet and stone—soft in places, firm in others, and Qinian tasted sandalwood and ash, temple incense and sweat, devotion and sin.

He broke the kiss only to press his lips lower—along the priest's throat, collar, down the center of his chest. Mihir arched beneath him like a man unraveling, the sounds leaving his mouth more beautiful than any scripture.

But Mihir's lips curved in that maddening, serene smile.

"You mistake the flame for its owner," Mihir murmured, voice thick with passion.

His chest heaved. Sweat glistened along his collarbones. His robe clung to his back, his pulse a thunder in his ears. He sat upright, gripping the sheets as if they could anchor him back to sanity.

The taste of Mihir still lingered on his tongue.

The scent. The sound. The sensation.

He looked down—his body flushed, trembling, aroused beyond reason. Shame twisted in his stomach. But desire drowned it.

He stood and crossed the room, flinging open the window. The cold night air did nothing to cool him. Stars scattered above like jewels, uncaring.

"Mihir..." he whispered, gripping the windowsill. "What are you?"

Lu Qinian's lips curved into something dark.

Not even Zhang Zheng—not even heaven—would stand in the way.

Chapter 19: Obscene Dreams