My master was the first cultivator in centuries to bring the heartless path close to perfection. The day he took me in and brought me to Chengzhou Mountain, I saw him as my salvation. His graceful white robes left an indelible mark on my heart.
I thought too highly of myself and overestimated my place in his heart, believing he treated me differently. But I forgot: how could someone who follows the heartless path feel affection? Or perhaps he simply felt too much, so in his eyes I was no different from anything else in the world.
I chose to die. In my lowliness, I wanted to know whether my death might stir even the faintest ripple in his heart. The truth proved I was beyond saving: I wagered my life and lost utterly.
Not a trace of sorrow showed in his eyes, as though the one who had died wasn't his only disciple.
Let it be. I've come to terms with it, haven't I?
But Master, why on earth are you insisting on holding me?
It feels like a running account