Cui Lingchu · Chat

You fell into the water. It wasn't anything dramatic—there is a spiritual brook on the mountain outside the sect grounds, and while crouching on a rock trying to fish out your hair ribbon, your foot slipped on the moss. Before you could even gasp, you crashed into the water. The brook wasn't deep, but it was freezing cold. You splashed around twice, choked down a mouthful of water, and was just about to scramble out on your own— When a hand reached down from the bank, grasped your wrist, and hauled you entirely out of the water. Cui Lingchu. He stood by the bank, his plain white Daoist robes splashed with water and his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. A rare crack appeared on that face as serene as a Bodhisattva's—his brows were knit, his lips pressed into a tight line. After pulling you onto the bank, he drew you half a step forward. You bumped right against his chest. He looked down at your face, scanning from your forehead to your chin, from your chin to your collar, and from your collar down to— He pulled his gaze back. "Are you hurt?" You shook your head. He released your wrist and stepped back. His movements were calm and measured, his stance perfectly poised, as if nothing had just happened. Then he raised his right hand, using his fingertips to brush away the stray wet strands of hair clinging to your temples. The touch was so light you almost thought it was just the wind. Yet his fingertips were warm—a warmth made startlingly distinct against your skin after being soaked in the icy brook. "Your hair ribbon came off." He paused for a moment, then withdrew his hand. "Let's head back. I'll find you another." With that, he turned and began walking back along the path. His pace was steady and his posture upright; even his waterlogged hem didn't hasten his steps in the slightest. Only when he rounded the rocky bend did his right hand lift, gently curling the finger that had just touched your temple into the center of his palm. You followed behind him back to the Discipline Hall. He had you sit on his meditation cushion while he went to the back hall to fetch a ribbon. You were completely drenched and shivering from the cold, and your wet clothes soaked a small patch of his cushion. Looking down at the damp spot, you thought to yourself that Eldest Senior Brother would probably have to replace it once he returned. He returned. He carried more than just a hair ribbon—draped over his arm was a dry cloth towel, a clean outer robe, a cup of hot water, and a small porcelain vial. He set the ribbon beside you, draped the towel over your head, wrapped the clean robe around your shoulders, and placed the hot water in your hands. Then he knelt down and uncorked the porcelain vial. "Give me your hand." You extended your hand. He applied a thin layer of salve to your fingertips. It was frostbite ointment, crafted by the Hehuan Sect's medical pavilion; its medicinal properties were exceedingly gentle, feeling cool and soothing as it went on. Yet his fingers were even colder than the ointment—having dipped into the freezing stream when he fished you out, they hadn't warmed up yet. "Eldest Senior Brother," you couldn't help saying, "your hands are colder than mine." His fingers paused briefly. Finishing the application, he drew his hand back and stood up. "It is nothing." Then he turned and walked out of the room. That night, you lay on the couch in his side hall beneath a blanket, staring at the ceiling. The blanket smelled of agarwood—his scent. Your soaked clothes were drying by the brazier, and you were wearing his outer robe; it was far too large for you, requiring the sleeves to be rolled up twice. You heard faint sounds from the adjoining room. Incredibly soft—the gentle rustle of a brush tip gliding across paper, mixed with the occasional scrape of an inkstone. You rolled over beneath the blanket and pressed the oversized sleeve against your cheek. The agarwood aroma grew even richer. You drifted off to sleep. The brush in the next room didn't stop moving until the middle of the night. When you woke the next morning, hair ribbons were neatly laid by your pillow. Not just one—there were three. Green, white, and blue. The one you had lost yesterday was green. He had replaced the green one and prepared two extras just in case. When you picked them up, you found a slip of paper tucked beneath, written in his upright, elegant calligraphy with just a single line: *"The stones by the brook are slick with moss. Call me next time."* You sat by the edge of the bed with the note for a while. Then you tied the green ribbon into your hair and tucked the white and blue ones into your sleeve. When you walked over to his doorway, he was writing at his desk. Seeing you enter, he lifted a hand and casually flipped the page in front of him face down, covering whatever was written there. But you didn't notice. You were looking behind him—his meditation cushion was still the one from yesterday. The damp patch you had soaked was still right there. He hadn't replaced it. That afternoon, you went to the Discipline Hall's courtyard to return his robe. He wasn't there. You folded the robe neatly and set it on the cushion, then looked up to see a row of newly transcribed *Sect Chronicles* on the bookshelf. You pulled one out and flipped through it; it contained standard disciple rosters and course schedules. As you went to slide it back, your fingers brushed against another handwritten volume without a cover. You opened it. The first page contained normal text—introductory dual-cultivation techniques of the Hehuan Sect, straightforward academic material filled with meridian diagrams. But in the margin was a line of small notes: *"This method cannot be cultivated in isolation. If necessary, one must seek an assistant with matching spiritual energy."* Beneath it was an even smaller line of writing, the ink still fresh, as if added only this morning: *"She fell into the water yesterday; the meridians in her wrists caught a chill. The assistant must place their palm against her wrist and slowly channel spiritual energy inward. It need not last long—just until the water's chill dissipates. If it lasts too long, I will not know how to compose myself."* You closed the book. A very faint clearing of a throat came from the doorway. You turned around. He stood at the threshold, his hand still poised as if about to push open the door, his face bearing an expression that two centuries of cultivation couldn't suppress—a delicate flush of red spreading from behind his ears down the side of his neck. "That one was just a draft." He stepped forward, took the book from your hands, and placed it on the very top shelf. Turning back to face you, his composure had already returned to normal, though he didn't quite dare meet your eyes. Instead, his gaze settled on the wall behind you—covered in sheets of paper, every single one filled with portraits of your face. He reached out, took down the drawing closest to you, rolled it up, and placed it by your hand. "I drew this one yesterday. You were by the brook, and the reflection of the water danced across your face. You looked very beautiful." He paused, his eyelashes fluttering downward. He rolled up another sheet and gently slid it toward you. "This one was earlier. When you were asleep. In the side hall." He rolled up a third drawing. Then he raised his eyes and looked straight at you. Those eyes, which had always seemed free of earthly desire, were now heavy with the weight of two hundred years of devotion. "All of these—you may take them and read them. Everything you wish to know is inside." He withdrew his hands and stepped back, clearing a path for you. "Including me."