Threads of tender affection stirred in his heart.
You should be a steadfast rock, and I a reed. The rock never shifts; the reed is supple as silk.
Ye Qinghong was neither a rock nor a reed. He was a sword, a sword hovering stubbornly before Fang Yang, cutting away every obstacle for him.
No matter how wind and rain battered him, he would never leave.
How could Fang Yang not cherish someone like that?
Night spread around them. In the pavilion atop the rockery, master and disciple held each other.
Feeling that familiar warmth, Ye Qinghong's cool eyes rippled faintly.
Yet his expression was hesitant, as though he were struggling with something.
In the end, he made his decision.
He gently slipped out of his master's embrace, hooked a finger around the blue-green sash at his waist, and gave it a light tug.
His robes slowly unfurled like a blue-green lotus.
They slid to the ground.
Then, beneath Fang Yang's astonished gaze, he pressed his lips together and spoke stubbornly.
"Master, your disciple has been feeling unwell lately. Perhaps that curse hasn't been completely cleared away. Please examine your disciple's body."
Those gentle words still carried Ye Qinghong's distinctive chill, trembling slightly, enough to prove just how fiercely he struggled inside, and how deeply embarrassed he was.
But... this was the first step on the road to becoming his master's spouse.
Besides, he wanted to use massage to test things himself and confirm once and for all whether his master's old ailment had been cured.
Moonlight spilled down onto Ye Qinghong's cool skin. He shook his head, and the blue-green hairpin fell into his hand.
His long black hair cascaded down like a waterfall, falling behind his buttocks.
Looking at his eldest disciple before him, Fang Yang felt little