All I could think was: Why didn’t he wait for me?
Why didn’t he wait for me… before throwing his life away?
His life should have been mine to protect. His life… and his very being.
I didn’t return to Mistveil Mountain. Instead, I settled by the edge of the Demon Abyss.
The demons had plenty of grievances against me. The court of the Demon Realm erupted into chaos over my presence, declaring that a celestial woman living in the heart of their domain was nothing short of a challenge to their dignity.
The demons threatened the Heavenly Realm, accusing me of provocation and suggesting my actions could reignite the war between the two realms.
The Heavenly Realm panicked and sent envoys to persuade me to return to Mistveil Mountain. They said, “Your disciple isn’t coming back. Everyone knows the Demon Abyss is filled with violent, destructive energy. Even you, Divine Lady, wouldn’t survive if you went down there!”
I knew they were right. Ten thousand years ago, the Demon King himself was swallowed by the abyss and never reemerged. Even at my peak, I wasn’t his equal—let alone now. I knew that entering the abyss meant no return, and Qing Han... Qing Han was long gone.
But I had no intention of listening to them.
They pleaded with me again, earnestly, “If you won’t spare the demons their dignity, at least spare some face for the Heavenly Realm. Please, return to Mistveil Mountain.”
With a wave of my hand, I sent the envoy flying. Along the way, I leveled a mountain near the abyss, scattering the procession of Heavenly Realm bureaucrats who had planned to take turns persuading me.
In doing so, I struck a blow to the pride of both realms.
Seeing my defiance, and realizing they couldn’t defeat me, no one dared to come again. The Heavenly Realm turned its efforts toward placating the demons, while the demons—eyeing the flattened mountain—decided to swallow their anger.
And so, I lived undisturbed at the edge of the Demon Abyss for three years, waiting.
Every day, I watched the violent energy roil below, but the person I longed for never returned, and the sight I hoped to see never appeared.
It was during those three years that I realized for the second time: my feelings for Qing Han were not those of a master for her disciple, nor of a savior for one she had rescued. They were the feelings of a woman in love—deep, unforgettable, and etched into my very soul.
Three years later, I returned to Mistveil Mountain. From that point on, my health deteriorated rapidly, bringing me to the state I’m in today.
When I think back, the events of those years seem as vivid as yesterday. But in the time since Qing Han’s departure, nothing about Mistveil Mountain has changed. Time, too, has lost all meaning for me. Living and dying feel no different anymore.
As I set aside these scattered memories and closed my eyes to sleep, I inadvertently dreamed of Qing Han again. He appeared as the young man he once was, standing beneath the pear blossom tree in the courtyard. Petals fell around him like snow. He turned to me and said, “Master, I’ve brewed pear blossom wine for you. You won’t need to go down the mountain to buy it anymore. Please don’t leave...”
He never liked it when I left, always finding ways to keep me close. I stayed by his side, yet in the end, he was the one who left me first.
The dream left me restless. I sat up, hearing the wind rattling the windows. When I looked outside, I saw it was snowing. Rising to close the window, I caught sight of the young man still standing beneath the pear blossom tree in the courtyard, his figure blending with the swirling snow.
For a moment, it felt as though I had stepped back into the dream, where a shy and uneasy boy told me he’d brewed wine for me and begged me not to leave—not even for a moment.
A wave of emotion surged through me, sweet and bitter at once. I coughed, struggling to suppress the blood rising in my chest.
The young man outside noticed me and turned his gaze toward me, his brows furrowing slightly. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I was momentarily dazed and blurted out a question: “What is your name?”
He hesitated for a moment before answering, “I am Liu Yue.”
Liu Yue—not Qing Han.
I lowered my gaze, feeling that the fleeting thought I’d just had was absurd beyond belief.
I closed the window, shutting out the wind and snow. Pressing a hand to my chest, I murmured to myself that I must truly be nearing the end. Only someone close to death would dwell so often on such unresolved memories.
But if I must remember, then so be it. After all, once I’m gone, there will be no one left in this world to remember that boy. While I’m still here, I’ll hold onto his memory a little longer.
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