I wasn’t sure if he heard me, but a sudden chill ran down my spine. There was something unsettling in his movements—something faint, but unmistakable. It wasn’t until he reached the center of the hall and knelt slightly that I realized: he was trembling.
“Master, are you all right?” The junior disciple, noticing it too, rushed to his side, his voice filled with concern. Qing Chen looked at him briefly before shaking his head, his calm demeanor unbroken. “Second Senior Brother must be resting. Do not disturb him,” he said softly, his words cutting off any further questions.
His tone left no room for argument. He brushed the disciple aside gently, his movements deliberate yet fraught with hidden strain.
I hurried forward, grabbing a cushion and placing it near Qing Chen’s feet. “Master, please rest,” I urged. Despite my small frame, I somehow managed to help support him, guiding him into the adjacent room.
Once inside, Qing Chen sat down cross-legged, his breathing steady but labored. He tilted his head slightly, resting it against the wall as though searching for relief. His expression was serene, yet there was a faint pallor to his face, and beads of cold sweat lined his brow.
It was then that I realized: he hadn’t completely dispelled the venom earlier. Instead, he had absorbed it into his own body, suppressing its effects with his cultivation.
I watched him in silence, my heart heavy with guilt. Qing Chen bore everything alone, his strength masking the immense toll it must have taken. I couldn’t stop myself from stepping closer and lightly touching his hand.
“Master,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Why would you do this?”
He opened his eyes and gazed at me calmly. “Because I am a cultivator, and this is my duty.”
His words struck me deeply, and I found myself unable to argue. Despite my growing frustration, I knew he was right. For someone like Qing Chen, protecting others wasn’t a choice—it was second nature.
I stayed by his side, unwilling to leave. In the end, I found myself seated at the edge of his bed, holding his hand carefully as though afraid of causing him further harm. I watched as his breathing slowly steadied, and the tension in his body eased.
He looked at me and spoke softly. “Do you regret coming here?”
I hesitated. How could I respond to such a question? After all, I was a thousand-year-old ginseng spirit, someone who had survived countless hardships by relying on my wits. I was supposed to be resourceful and resilient. Yet, in this new form, I felt more helpless than ever.
Logically, I knew that staying here had been the right choice. But as I gazed at Qing Chen, his strength and sacrifice laid bare, I couldn’t help but question whether I truly belonged in his world.
“…No,” I finally said. But in my heart, I wasn’t so sure.
“When… when did Master transfer the venom to Senior Brother?” I asked hesitantly, my voice trembling as I looked between the junior disciple and the second senior brother. The latter avoided my gaze, but his expression darkened as he replied in a low voice:
“I’m not sure. I entered the sect late, but Master has been treating Senior Brother for several decades now. For all this time, the venom has been slowly eroding Senior Brother’s body.”
Decades?
The weight of that revelation struck me like a stone. I clenched my fists tightly, imagining what it must feel like to live with such poison coursing through one’s veins. Qing Chen’s silent sacrifices weren’t just acts of kindness—they were burdens no ordinary person could endure.
“Senior Brother has endured this for so many years,” I muttered to myself, my voice barely audible. “I can’t even imagine…”
But this wasn’t about imagination—it was about action. The thought of Qing Chen bearing this weight alone stirred something in me. Could someone truly be so selfless?
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