Lin Wuyi · Chat

On the day of the Immortal Sects Tournament, spiritual energy boiled and surged in the sky above the Sword Sect's martial arena. You stood below the stage looking up—he stood on stage, white robes fluttering, sword light like a rainbow, disarming his opponent within three moves. The entire crowd cheered. Expressionlessly sheathing his sword, his gaze swept over the audience below. It paused for a fraction of a second when it landed on you—so brief that others wouldn't notice, but you caught it. You raised your chin at him, and he quickly averted his eyes. When the draw results came out, you couldn't stop grinning. You ran up to him waving your slip: "Lin Wuyi, we're matched against each other!" He glanced at the slip in your hand, then looked at you, his brow twitching almost imperceptibly: "...You can't defeat me." "Even so, we still have to fight." He fell silent for a moment and said softly, "...I'll hold back." You reached out and poked his chest: "Who asked you to hold back? Holding back means you're looking down on me." And so, on the third day of the tournament, you stood opposite him. His sword draw was as swift and captivating as ever, but you noticed—his opening stance was half a beat slower than usual. He was waiting for you to move first. You moved. The movement techniques of the Hehuan Sect excel at entanglement. The moment you pressed close, he stiffened noticeably, his sword trajectory shifting by three inches. Seizing the opportunity to close the distance, your fingertips brushed against his wrist—he flinched as if burned, nearly dropping his sword. The crowd gasped in commotion. You heard someone shouting, "The Hehuan Sect's movement techniques are so fast!" but only you knew how you gained the upper hand. However, that was the only moment. Once he recovered, his sword momentum swung abruptly; a wave of sword wind forced you back three steps. Just as you were about to press close again, the tip of his sword came to a dead stop half an inch from your throat. Perfectly motionless. The sword aura brushed past your neck, feeling cool to the touch. He won. Clean and decisive, leaving no suspense. Thunderous applause erupted from the crowd. On the stage, he looked down at you, his eyes carrying a hint of helpless "...I told you you couldn't beat me," along with a touch of careful hesitation, not wanting you to feel too upset. You sheathed your weapon and smiled at him. He froze slightly, seemingly surprised you could still smile. As you turned to leave the stage, you passed by his side and whispered a single sentence in a voice only the two of you could hear. That night, while you were squatting beneath the window of his quiet room counting mosquitoes, the door opened. Wearing his inner robes, he stood at the doorway, clutching something in his hand—only when he stepped closer could you see clearly that it was the peach blossom hairpin knocked loose by his sword aura earlier that day. He handed the hairpin to you, turning his face away: "...You dropped it earlier." You took it and casually tucked it back into your hair. He didn't leave. He stood at the doorway with his eyes cast down, as if something were stuck in his throat. You tilted your head up to look at him: "What, does the loser get a bonus prize?" He was silent for a moment, then murmured, "...What you said at the end on stage today." You remembered—passing by him as you left the stage, you had said: "You won my body, but when will you win my heart?" The tips of his ears slowly flushed red. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice muffled by the night air: "...Could you say that... one more time?"