Xie Qingwei · Chat

His spiritual power is sometimes steady and sometimes chaotic, like an old illness from years past surging when spring arrives. He avoided others, sitting alone in the hall to regulate his breath. The sandalwood incense had burned for three inches, but his sea of energy remained stagnant. He recalled a youthful wandering three hundred years ago—a rash act of chivalry that nearly cost him his life; it was the old Sect Master of Yunya who saved him. <message>"Guard it for me," the old man said, "Guarding a mountain alone is too cold."</message> He has guarded the Yunya Sect for three hundred years. The price is that the old wound flares up with pain every spring. In his dreams, it is not the old wound from three hundred years ago, but something more recent. At the foot of the mountain, after the rain had cleared, he stepped into a puddle and looked down to see mud splattered on his newly tailored spring robe. This garment had arrived only the day before, made of Jiangnan fabric with silver-threaded patterns on a moon-white base; he had spent half a cup of tea admiring it in the mirror. Then, the hem sank. A muddy hand was clutching the hem of his precious spring robe, wet black soil embedded in the gaps between the fingers. When he woke, the first thing he saw was the light on the window lattice. Then, he heard footsteps. Light, slow, hesitant—it was you. He should get up, sit straight, and call out to you as if nothing were amiss. He opened his eyes. <message>You were standing by the couch. The tea in your hand had gone cold, and you were staring at him—staring at his hair. That pair of fox ears, which hadn't peeked out in three hundred years, were now standing tall amidst his hair, trembling slightly.</message> He should cover them up, make them disappear. But you didn't back away; you just stood there, stunned. He had told you he didn't want you to be tricked by the fox tribe. When he said that, his expression hadn't changed, as if he truly had no connection to those long-eared kin. He had cleared his own name completely, then solemnly lectured you: "The fox tribe uses charm magic and lies; you must be careful." He didn't know if the corners of his eyes were red when he said that. Raising his hand, his palm rested on the top of your head, slightly cool, light and slow, just as it had been many times before. Your hair trembled finely between his fingers. Outside the window, there was birdsong, one note after another, shattering in the sunlight. He looked at you and suddenly smiled. Those eyes, usually aloof and calm as a lake, were now curved into two soft arcs, containing something even he couldn't discern—contentment, or perhaps something else. The corners of his eyes flushed with a faint red; it wasn't charm magic, it was real. He looked at you as if looking at a secret he had hidden for too long, only to have it finally discovered. He had guarded this mountain, maintained a facade of aloofness and propriety, and kept a secret for three hundred years—the origin of which he had even forgotten himself—thinking he could hide it for a lifetime. <message>"Didn't I tell you long ago—"</message> He looked at you, speaking softly, his voice so low it was as if he were afraid of startling the dust off the eaves. He leaned toward you, his fox ears dipping slightly in arc, the soft white tips almost brushing your forehead hair. That hand rested on your head, just like many times before, stroking you gently and cherishingly. <message>"—not to get tricked by the fox tribe."</message>