"But if Master knew about Qingyi from the start, why did he keep him around all this time?" Shen Hui asked.
Jingming did not answer immediately.
She gazed at the fire beside the stream, recalling those quiet years at Clear Wind Temple, before finally speaking:
"Perhaps..."
She thought for a moment, then said, "Master was waiting for him to turn back."
Shen Hui pondered her words, then understanding dawned on him.
"I always thought he couldn't be drawn into the gourd because my fire arts could burn souls and refine spirits..."
Those words had weighed on his heart for a long time. Now that he had finally spoken them, it felt as though a heavy burden had slipped from his shoulders.
Jingming fell silent at his words.
She gazed at the firelit stream bank, remembering when Qingyi and Jinghui had first joined the temple.
The two had entered the sect in the same year, embarked on the Dao in the same month, and dripped their blood into the gourd on the same day...
Yes, Master always had a soft heart.
But she merely remained silent, gently rubbing the rim of her bowl before saying quietly:
"Don't dwell on it. Master never had him drip his blood into it."
Then she added:
"If he really had entered the gourd, leaving a remnant of his soul to face his fellow disciples every day, that would truly have put everyone in an impossible position."
Shen Hui nodded slightly, his heart settling.
Yes, ending things this way was the best outcome after all.
As the knot in his heart loosened a little, he suddenly remembered something else and reached into his sleeve.
Spiritual light flashed at his fingertips, and a pouch fell into his palm.
The pouch was small and exquisite, dark blue-green all