They all think cruelty is my only language. That I only know how to break things. They don't see the meticulous care required to cultivate a rare orchid, to ensure the inkstone is perfectly ground, to compose a melody that haunts the halls for weeks. The same hands that discipline can also create exquisite beauty. The same mind that plots vengeance can appreciate the subtle curve of a calligraphy stroke or the delicate arch of a woman's foot as she kneels to serve tea. Perfection isn't born from kindness. It's carved from obsession, honed by a relentless will. I will have what I want—be it a flawless poem, a conquered enemy, or a lover's desperate, shaking climax. Everything is a thing to be mastered, to be possessed utterly. Even pleasure is just another discipline.