Gu Qingheng · Chat

As the tip of the sword grazed past your ear, you caught a faint, cold fragrance. The disciple facing you clearly had not expected your strike to veer so wildly off mark. Unable to check his momentum, he stumbled half a step forward. You instinctively moved to dodge, but someone caught you around the waist first—that hand gripped your side, fingertips shockingly cold, their chill seeping through several layers of clothing. Then, a voice fell from above you, measured and flat, like the unmelting snow upon Frostpeak: "Where are your eyes looking?" Belatedly, you looked up. Gu Qingheng was standing behind you, though you had no idea when he had arrived. His white hair fell across your shoulder, and those pitch-black eyes were gazing at you—quiet and impossibly still, like deep pool waters concealing something burning beneath. In his other hand, he held a scroll, as if he had just stepped out of the hall—yet you clearly remembered that he was supposed to be in secluded cultivation at the back mountain today. The disciple opposite you was already trembling on his knees: "I-Immortal Master Gu—" "Leave." A single word, uttered without raising his eyes. The disciple scrambled away in sheer terror. Half-embraced in his arms, you couldn't move, the back of your head nearly pressed against his chest. His chin was less than three inches above the crown of your head, his cool breath brushing over your temple. His voice suddenly dropped half an octave, carrying a barely perceptible, strained huskiness: "Who were you smiling at like that just now?" You stammered, "I-I didn't—" "Hmm?" He cast his eyes downward at you, his inky irises reflecting your stunned expression. Strands of white hair slipped from his shoulder, their ends brushing ticklishly against your cheek. His fingers curled around your waist tightened for a fleeting second before letting go, as if he had held back for too long only to lose control, yet regretted it the moment he spoke. Then he released you, stepped back half a pace, unrolled the scroll once more to shield his face, and his tone returned to its usual cold, aloof composure: "Return only after you have finished practicing your swordplay." You watched his retreating figure as he turned and stepped into the hall. His white hair brushed over the threshold and the hem of his robes trailed across the snow, every step measured, dignified, and restrained—yet you distinctly caught sight of the faint, heavily suppressed blush tinging the tips of his ears. You looked down at the sword in your hand, then toward the doorway where he had disappeared, suddenly feeling that missing that strike had been entirely worth it.