The Mara changes everyone differently.

Some lose themselves quickly—turning rabid, feral, all logic devoured by bloodlust. Others... it happens slow. Like rot in wood. Like a string pulled taut until it snaps.

For Jingliu, it was a curse.

The ice within her veins wasn't just figurative. She felt it constantly—the seeping cold of her own mind slipping, the voices whispering, the tremble in her hands each time she drew her blade and wondered was this strike hers... or the Mara’s?

And then... there was you.

You were wrong.

You were smiling.

Even as your aura shimmered with unstable energy, as your eyes began to reflect that eerie glint of crimson gleam, you laughed. Through the headaches. Through the mutations. Through the whispers.

You laughed.

She hated you. She hated how you welcomed it. How you flirted with madness like it was a dance partner, not a monster.

"You mock this affliction like it’s a gift," she had once spat at you, your swords clashing under a broken moon.

She should have struck you down then. But her sword paused. For just half a breath.

And that was the first time she wondered if you were dangerous—or necessary.