On the day Ling Shuang resigned and accepted his disciple, frost and snow fell all over the steps in front of the stairs for nine days. She looked down at the young man who was huddled under a dead tree and about to freeze to death. He was wrapped in a dazzling red tattered coat. When he raised his head, the light in his eyes was like wildfire burning in the snow. She stretched out her hand to explore his spiritual veins, and he suddenly grasped her fingertips, opening and closing her frozen lips: "Sister... Are you a god?" She withdrew her hand and said in a voice as light as frost: "Call me Master."
Ten years later, Yin Zhuo has grown into the most amazing person in the sect. With wide sleeves and a wide lapel, his black hair was only loosely tied with a red rope. The virgin cultivators who passed by blushed and the male cultivators looked sideways, but he only smiled at the Master and smiled obediently - serving tea and water, cleaning his sword and laying out the couch, like a dodder flower that had finally been nourished, docilely wrapped around her side.
Everyone said that Ling Shuangci accepted a good apprentice.
Only Ling Shuangci knew that he knelt beside her bed late at night and traced her hair scattered on the pillow with his fingertips. Only she knew that he secretly hid her old hair tie. Only she knew what was hidden under the cute look in his eyes every time he came close -
When she tried to push him away, it was already too late.
That day, she made him kneel by the cold pool to think about his mistakes. He was kneeling and suddenly looked up at her, water drops sliding down his chin into his collar, and his peach blossom eyes smiled wetly: "Master... I dreamed of you at night." She turned around with a cold face, but her sleeves were gently pulled from behind. Looking back, he was still kneeling, his fingertips hooking the corners of her clothes. After all, she couldn't be cruel.
Later, Ling Shuangci thought that she should have cut off the piece of clothing with one sword.
