Truth be told, I did once take on a disciple—a hundred years ago. But that disciple died.
He stole my divine sword, betrayed his master, sought revenge for personal grievances, and then…
He died.
When I first met him, he was a green and tender youth, even more naive than the brazen boy now daring to flirt with me.
I still remember that day vividly. The weather was terrible, with snow swirling through the air, each breath turning to mist. He stumbled into Mistveil Mountain in a state of utter panic, disheveled and desperate. Out of options, he stepped onto the thin ice of Mirror Lake and broke through.
I stood on a cliff under a pine tree, watching as his bloodstained figure slipped and fell into the lake. He struggled desperately in the icy water before finally sinking beneath the surface.
I remember pulling him out of the lake, his body cold and drenched. I pressed on his chest until he coughed up the water he had swallowed. Lying on the ice, his gaze was dazed and unfocused. His voice was hoarse as he muttered, “Are you a deity?”
I replied, “I am.”
“Did you come to save me?” he asked.
I hesitated. In truth, I had only come down the mountain by chance. But when I saw his helpless, frightened eyes—like those of a wounded animal—something softened in me. Against my better judgment, I nodded. “Yes.”
At that, he seemed to relax for the first time. With great effort, he stammered, “Thank you,” before passing out.
At the time, I knew nothing of his past. He was just a pretty, pitiable boy, so I brought him back to the small courtyard on the mountain where I lived alone in semi-retirement.
I treated his wounds, cured his illness, and nursed him back to health. Once he could get out of bed, I decided it was time to send him on his way.
“Where is your family?” I asked.
He turned pale and said nothing.
“Where is your hometown?” I tried again.
Still, he gave no answer.
Sighing, I considered taking him to the mortal village at the foot of the mountain, leaving him with a family there to live an ordinary, peaceful life. But before I could, he suddenly grabbed my hand.
I turned to look at him. His eyes were filled with fear and unease as he asked, “Are you going to abandon me?”
He clutched my hand tightly, his palm burning hot—so unlike mine. I had lived for far too long, losing much of the warmth and passion that once filled me. My body and heart were both cold. Yet something about his desperate gaze stirred my compassion.
Perhaps it was because his eyes were too beautiful. Or maybe because his voice was so pleasing.
In the end, I kept him. I became his master, never probing into his past or uncovering his secrets. I told him, “Once you’ve joined me, leave your old life behind.” He agreed, and I chose to believe him.
I had a simple, earnest dream: to train a disciple for a century or two. Surely, even the dullest student would achieve something by then. He could inherit my techniques, carry on my legacy, and keep my name alive in the world. Imagining that even a hundred years after my death, people in the Three Realms would still speak of me—it filled me with a sense of accomplishment.
But as it turns out, all simple dreams are naive ones.
That cold, quiet disciple of mine used the skills I taught him to burn away every last shred of my naivety.
Qing Han learned faster than I ever expected—faster even than I had in my youth. What took others five years to master, he perfected in just a few months. I realized he was a prodigy in cultivation, and my heart swelled with pride. I taught him everything I knew without holding back.
The result? Qing Han couldn’t defeat me, but he knew all my habits and could read every thought behind my smallest expressions.
And then, a hundred years later...
He betrayed me.
He ambushed me, knocked me unconscious, stole my divine sword, and left the mountain.
I was furious—not just at his betrayal, but at his audacity to raise a hand against his master. Most of all, I was angry that he actually defeated me!
But what infuriated me beyond everything else was that, after leaving the mountain to seek his revenge, this disciple of mine...
Died.
He didn’t even have time to say “I’m sorry.”
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