"Zhao Min? He said Zhao Min?"
Shanggong Changge stood stunned. Every thought in her mind was swept aside by a single figure: a valiant woman in white, her expression cold and distant.
"Greetings, Master!"
The woman's voice rang out like clinking ice, crisp and clear...
Flap, flap...
The river wind tugged at Shanggong Changge's robes. The sound pulled her back to herself, and her gaze sharpened.
"Senior! Senior!"
Shanggong Changge hurried forward two steps and called urgently into the empty air, but only the endless wind answered her.
After waiting several breaths, disappointment crossed her face. The yellow-robed cultivator must have gone far away. She stood where she was, frowning in thought.
Zhao Min isn't dead? That man said Zhao Min isn't dead? But the two Supreme Great Elders said she'd fallen. How could they lie?
They valued Zhao Min highly as a disciple of the race. If she hadn't already been my disciple, she might even have become a personal disciple of one of the Supreme Elders...
Shanggong Changge found what she had heard today impossible to believe. Zhao Min's death had long since been a settled fact in her mind.
When she had first received news of Zhao Min's unexpected death, loneliness had settled over her. She had sat alone in her room for a long time.
Zhao Min had not been her only disciple. Some of the others had fallen early in the border war, while others had later died unexpectedly on their travels.
With a heart as hard as iron and stone, she had felt no more than regret when she heard of their deaths. Yet the loss of Zhao Min, a disciple she had taken on midway, had stirred no small wave in her heart.
Part of it, of course, was that Zhao Min's death