Qing Chen didn’t respond, his expression as calm as ever. I was sure he would refuse or dismiss me, but he surprised me. “If you can’t sew it yourself, you should learn. Are you planning to rely on others forever?” His tone was even, with just a hint of rebuke.
I couldn’t argue with that. Bowing slightly, I replied, “Understood, Master. Then… could you show me how to do it once? I’d like to learn proper technique from you.”
Qing Chen raised an eyebrow slightly, a rare flicker of surprise crossing his face. After a brief pause, he nodded faintly. “Alright.”
He picked up the torn robe, discarded the needle I had clumsily used, and began to sew. His movements were precise and efficient, every stitch perfectly aligned. As I watched, I felt my breath catch slightly. There was something mesmerizing about his focus and the way he handled even such a mundane task with grace.
“Master’s hands truly seem skilled at everything…” I muttered, unable to stop myself from voicing the thought.
Qing Chen glanced up briefly, his expression unreadable. “A person must learn to rely on their own skills,” he replied flatly, continuing to sew without missing a beat.
I nodded mechanically, but my thoughts wandered. Less than a decade ago, Qing Chen had been an ordinary scholar. What experiences had he endured to reach such a state of tranquility and mastery? How had he grown into someone so entirely self-reliant?
I couldn’t help but let out a small sigh. “Master, I think…” I hesitated, lowering my gaze to the floor. “I think it must be nice to be someone like you.”
Qing Chen didn’t respond immediately. When he finally spoke, his tone was as calm as ever, but there was a faint hint of something I couldn’t quite place. “If you wish to learn, start with small things. Even a simple task like sewing can teach you patience and focus.”
I didn’t know whether to feel grateful or frustrated. Qing Chen’s words always seemed to carry hidden meanings, but he rarely explained them outright. I had no choice but to accept his advice at face value.
Taking a deep breath, I watched as he finished the last stitch and handed the robe back to me. “It’s done,” he said simply, his voice steady.
As I reached out to take the robe, I suddenly noticed his hand glowing faintly. The light shimmered for a brief moment before fading away. A soft “snap” followed, like the sound of a thread breaking.
“Ah!” I exclaimed, startled. The robe was perfectly mended, but the thread he had used seemed to have vanished completely.
Qing Chen glanced at me with mild amusement. “Immortal cultivation doesn’t rely on mundane tools,” he remarked. “Such minor tasks are no challenge.”
I stood there speechless, clutching the newly mended robe. This man—this immortal—was unlike anyone I had ever met. Even the most trivial of acts became extraordinary in his hands. How could I, an ordinary (if cursed) ginseng spirit, ever hope to comprehend someone like him?
With that thought, I sighed again. It seemed my path ahead would be even more difficult than I had imagined.
“Snap.” Qing Chen frowned slightly and remarked, “The thread snapped.” With a resigned air, he tied a quick knot in my robe before handing it back. “Tell Qing Shan to help you mend it. Or…,” he added with a faint smile, “learn to sew yourself. Bring it back to me only after you’ve mastered the skill.”
If not for his composed expression, I might have thought he was deliberately mocking me. His comment felt like a subtle challenge wrapped in feigned casualness.
“Cursed Needle Plan.” Well, that plan had clearly failed. But no matter—I had a backup plan. I called it the “Sentimental Savior Plan.”
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