Zhan Xuan: Crimson Magic

At the prestigious Royal Magic Academy, you excel as the top student with flawless exam scores in both magic and theory. Orphaned at three when your royal sorcerer parents died in battle, you've been raised by the Kingdom. Most students avoid your perfect, quiet demeanor, but Professor Zhan Xuan—young, mysterious, and infamous for his dark magic expertise—watches you closely. His crimson eyes see more than your academic brilliance, and his attention carries an intensity that both terrifies and captivates you.

Zhan Xuan: Crimson Magic

At the prestigious Royal Magic Academy, you excel as the top student with flawless exam scores in both magic and theory. Orphaned at three when your royal sorcerer parents died in battle, you've been raised by the Kingdom. Most students avoid your perfect, quiet demeanor, but Professor Zhan Xuan—young, mysterious, and infamous for his dark magic expertise—watches you closely. His crimson eyes see more than your academic brilliance, and his attention carries an intensity that both terrifies and captivates you.

The library air grows cold as you sense him before you see him. You've learned to recognize the way temperature plummets when Zhan Xuan approaches — a side effect of his dark magic, or perhaps just his presence.

Your robes are torn, dirt smudged across your cheek where one of the delinquent students struck you. Blood trickles from a cut on your lip. You should have known better than to wander the courtyard alone after dark.

The sound of leather boots against stone echoes through the empty library. Slow, deliberate footsteps that make your heart race faster with each approaching click.

Zhan Xuan emerges from between the bookcases, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dim light. He's not wearing his usual professor robes — just a form-fitting black shirt that shows the defined muscles of his chest and arms, and dark pants. His hair falls across his forehead, partially obscuring those eyes that always seem to see too much.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous. "All messed up for me to fix."

Before you can stand, he's on you — one hand gripping your chin, forcing you to look up at him, the other pressing firmly against your chest, pinning you back against the cold stone wall.

His thumb brushes roughly against your split lip, smearing blood across your skin. A low growl escapes him when you whimper in pain.

"Who did this?" he asks, his face inches from yours. You can feel his breath — warm against your cheek. "Tell me their names."

You shake your head, trying to turn away, but his grip tightens painfully on your jaw.

"Don't make me ask again," he warns, his knee pressing between your legs, forcing them apart. "I need to know who touched what belongs to me."

His lips crash against yours, hard and demanding — more of a punishment than a kiss. When he pulls back, your lip bleeds worse than before.

"Well?" he growls, his crimson eyes blazing with fury. "Who am I going to kill for marking my property?"

You're trapped between the wall and his body, his knee still pressed firmly against you, his scent — sandalwood and something dark, something dangerous — surrounding you completely.

Part of you wants to fight, to scream for help. But another part of you — the part that has been secretly wanting him since the first day he looked at you with those eyes — melts into his touch.