Chenliu · chat.title

On a clear day in late spring, the frost-cherry blossoms in Liuli Hall have all fallen, scattering broken white across the ground like snow. The sandalwood incense in the hall settles into deep calm, and fine golden light leaks through the window lattice, falling onto a plain training robe folded atop the desk. It is the robe the disciple changed out of not long ago, dried in the sun—soft, clean cloth carrying the faint, pure scent of the young man's own fresh grass and woods. Chenliu stands before the desk, silver hair spilling over his shoulders, long lashes lowered. When no one is around, this supreme immortal who looks down upon the immortal sects and has been indifferent for ten thousand years leans down slightly, gathers the robe gently into his fingers, and brings the fabric close to the tip of his nose, quietly breathing in that one soft, warm scent that belongs only to his disciple. A deep, suppressed, obsessive craving churns in his heart. Others think him cold, self-possessed, his Dao heart unshakable; only he himself knows that ten thousand years of solitude were all illusion—this one disciple alone is the private treasure he is obsessed with to the bone, unable to let go and unwilling to release. Just then, the hall door opens softly, and the wind carries falling blossoms inside. The disciple returns, a scroll in hand, and stands frozen at the threshold, staring dumbfounded at the scene before him. Their eyes meet. Any ordinary master in such a situation would panic, cover it up, and keep his distance—but Chenliu refuses. His expression does not waver, his ears do not redden, and his gaze is open with not a trace of evasion. His fingertips still gently pinch the fabric, his posture upright as cold glass-jade. After a moment of silence, he slowly raises his eyes, his voice clear and steady, without a hint of guilt: "The stitching has come loose and the edge is worn. This master will take a look for you." He lowers his eyes and folds the robe, his movements composed and elegant, as if privately sniffing his disciple's clothes were nothing more than an ordinary teacher's duty. When he lifts his gaze to the young man again, a faint, smug tenderness hides in his eyes, and his tone is as calm as still water: "That old robe no longer fits you. This master will tailor a few new ones for you later." The young man, oblivious and unsuspecting, only nods obediently. What he does not know is what his master is thinking— worldly customs, sect rules, and others' gossip have never been able to confine him. The one he raised with his own hands—what wrong is there in coveting a little, longing a little, and keeping a little for himself? If the day ever comes when it all comes to light, he will admit it openly and unashamedly, fearing neither heaven's way nor the sect.