But when I observed his eyes, looking up at him from the confines of this strange body, I saw the trace of his old self. Watching his expression closely, I could almost see his resolve flicker. Perhaps he thought he could leave this all behind, yet his eyes revealed a trace of lingering emotion, much like the cracks forming under ice when the sun rises.
I sighed quietly, holding on to a shred of pride that remained after so many years. Yet even that felt insignificant. My thoughts wandered to the idea of how easily the world could use me, how I was so easily deemed insignificant. Would my life forever remain a vessel for others, void of my own meaning?
"Why are you doing this to me?" I asked. "You clearly know where my true body is. Why not take me there? Why leave me here, buried in ice, while the days pass by?"
He didn’t respond at first. After what seemed like an eternity, he simply said, “You have always been capable of enduring. What difference does it make now?”
The despair in his words was as frigid as the snow-covered peaks outside.
I realized I had no more tears left. I had been used for so many years that even despair seemed like an indulgence. What did it matter if I protested? I was nothing but a temporary placeholder for someone else’s plans.
Finally, I looked him in the eye. "What is it you want from me? Why did you bring me here?"
He turned away, looking out at the sky beyond the mountain peaks. “I had my reasons,” he said softly. His tone was as light as the wind that brushed past us.
He walked out the door without a second glance. It was as though he had neatly wrapped up every thread of this conversation, leaving behind a profound silence.
At the doorway, I stood motionless, my gaze falling on his receding figure. Somewhere deep within, I felt the echoes of the life I once had—the pride, the yearning, the anger—but these emotions felt impossibly distant, as though I was reaching for a sun that had already set.
"I see now," I murmured to myself. "This is my life now."
“I don’t want to live anymore.” I clutched his arm and reached out to him, pleading, “Please help me break this curse. I don’t want to live like this.”
He merely glanced at me, his gaze indifferent, before turning away. “I can’t break it.”
Qing Chen left the room without looking back. It was as though he had never appeared before me at all.
I lived in that quiet valley for two years. There was no movement or life here—it was a place where one might as well already be dead.
I tried to adapt to this existence. For the sake of surviving, I built a small wooden hut in the mountains. I would occasionally venture out to gather food, but most of the time, I stayed within the valley, keeping my thoughts to myself. I tried not to dwell on anything—what had happened, what I had lost, or who I used to be. I tried to forget it all, focusing only on surviving each day.
But no matter how hard I tried, I could not escape from my own thoughts. I could not forget him, nor could I forget who I was. The reality of my circumstances made it impossible to find peace. In the stillness of the valley, the weight of my memories pressed down on me, and I could not breathe.
I stopped wanting to live. Every time I looked at the steep cliffs that surrounded the valley, I thought about jumping, about ending it all. But something always held me back, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.
On the day I decided to leave, the sky was clear, with birds chirping, flowers blooming, and the air filled with the faint scent of immortality—so much like the past, yet painfully distant.
The coldness of the valley lingered behind me as I stood at the entrance for a long time, unsure if I should take that final step. In the end, I walked out and didn’t look back.
Qing Chen didn’t try to stop me, nor did he offer any parting words. He stood in the shadows, watching silently, his expression unreadable. I left the valley, knowing he would never take another disciple, nor would he teach anyone again.
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