I would subtly make Qing Chen believe that his own immortal essence was necessary for my survival. By creating situations where I “accidentally” injured myself, I hoped to play on his emotions and compel him to intervene. All I needed was a drop of blood from him—just one—and my curse would be weakened.
So, I sighed pitifully, held my wrist dramatically, and muttered weakly, “Ah…” I hoped he’d instinctively reach out to help. If he didn’t, perhaps his hand would slip, leading to a small injury. That was all I needed to succeed.
A few days later, during one of those dreary mornings, I set my plan into motion.
Through the open window, I saw Qing Chen standing with the senior disciples, speaking calmly. His expression was as serene as ever, but his gestures held a quiet authority. As I waited for the right moment, I stumbled slightly, clutching my wrist as I fell into the doorway. My eyes darted toward Qing Chen’s arm.
He raised an eyebrow.
Hmm?
Was that… concern?
No, not quite. His gaze held the same calm detachment, but he glanced at me briefly before looking away. Without a word, he raised his hand to pat Senior Brother on the shoulder, signaling him to handle the situation. But Senior Brother hesitated, only to step forward moments later and grab Qing Chen’s arm lightly.
“Master…” Senior Brother began, his voice hesitant.
What was this? A plan to distract me? Were they testing me, or was this all a deliberate show of nonchalance?
The scene felt almost theatrical—immortals and disciples going through the motions, as though none of them took me seriously. Qing Chen’s faintly amused smile lingered for only a second before he spoke coolly: “Go.”
The senior disciple seemed to understand instantly. He nodded and turned to leave, only pausing briefly to glance in my direction with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher. Qing Chen’s gaze remained steady, and he didn’t bother looking back as he continued his conversation.
That failed attempt left me flustered and wondering whether my plans had any chance of succeeding. Qing Chen seemed utterly unshakable, his demeanor a perfect shield against manipulation.
What else could I try? He was proving to be a more formidable challenge than I had anticipated.
What kind of immortal is this? Qing Chen turned out to be nothing like the solemn and aloof immortals I’d imagined. No wonder he rarely appeared in public court sessions—how could someone like him deal with formalities?
“What's wrong?” Qing Chen approached me, lowering his gaze. His calm, emotionless eyes seemed to carry a faint hint of amusement, as if he were casually observing a small, clumsy animal. “Torn your sleeve again?”
“Well… um…” I stammered, quickly pointing to the swords the senior disciples were practicing with. “Master, they all have swords. I’d like one of my own.”
Qing Chen tilted his head slightly, then grabbed a random sword leaning against the nearby wall. Handing it to me, he said, “Here. Use this one for now.”
I gripped the sword and felt its surprising weight. Trembling slightly, I tried a basic stance, only for Qing Chen to glance at me briefly and walk away without another word.
But it didn’t bother me anymore. My focus was entirely on Qing Chen now, and nothing else mattered.
Qing Chen seemed indifferent to everyone around him. Even the first and second senior brothers rarely interacted with him. Did they know his true nature? Or, like me, were they secretly trying to figure out how to earn his favor?
The third senior brother was an easy-going and slightly airheaded person. When he first met me, he didn’t seem to care much about my existence. But on the second morning of tea duty, I accidentally bumped into him while washing the bowls.
0 Comments