The next second, Mu Zhiming tilted her head, her grayish-white pupils turning precisely in his direction.
Ji Wangshu’s heart skipped a beat. He quickly pulled his head back and sat down on the bed.
Mu Zhiming withdrew her gaze and lowered her head once more, her slender jade-like fingers idly toying with the colorful petals in the flower bed.
With her grayish-white pupils, she could only perceive vague outlines and colors. What met her eyes was a vast expanse of snow-white blotches, with round pale-yellow centers in the middle. To the left of her vision were pale pink tinged with light red, each about the size of a copper coin. At the bottom were leaf-green lines, occasionally interspersed with colorful floral rings.
These colors shifted and flowed, ever-changing, as if the world before her eyes had become a vibrant ink-wash painting.
She murmured to herself, “In a few more days, I probably won’t be able to see even these colors anymore…”
While whispering softly, her mind drifted back to the look in Ji Wangshu’s eyes from earlier.
What must he look like now?
In her memories, he was always that lively, restless boy who loved making her laugh, poking her cheek and calling her “wooden head.”
He was a world apart from the drowsy, distant man in the wooden cabin now.
Perhaps it was because of the lingering injuries he’d sustained after being abducted into the Demon Sect, requiring him to rest and recuperate; or perhaps with over a decade gone by, people’s hearts change easily.
With a Ji Wangshu like this, how was she supposed to interact with him?
Her fingertip, which was plucking at the petals, tightened unconsciously. Suddenly, she recalled the scene from that afternoon when she had been practicing swordsmanship with Junior Sister Chen Miao.
…
In front of the great hall, the sky had dimmed, and all the other disciples had already finished their training and returned to their quarters.
The plaza was silent, broken only by the sharp whistle of sword qi cutting through the air.
The longsword in Mu Zhiming’s hand gleamed with cold light, its strikes fierce and unrelenting, each one carrying a chilling killing intent as she pressed straight toward Chen Miao.
Though she couldn’t see, she could still rely on her Spiritual Sense to track her opponent’s position. It wasn’t as good as when her eyes were bright, but for dealing with ordinary opponents, it was more than enough.
After a few exchanges, Chen Miao could no longer hold her ground. Her sword was knocked flying, and she hastily cried out for mercy.
Mu Zhiming’s sword light abruptly receded. With a light tap of her toes on the ground, she spun into the air and smoothly sheathed her sword.
“Wow, Senior Sister Mu, you’re blind and still this cool~” Chen Miao clapped her hands, her crisp laughter ringing out.
Mu Zhiming smiled in response.
Among the sect members, Chen Miao was the one closest to her, which was why she dared to tease her about her blindness.
It was better this way—at least I’m not being treated differently, she thought to herself.
“Senior Sister Mu, your hair’s all loose. Let me tie it up for you.”
Chen Miao looked at Mu Zhiming’s hair, which cascaded down like a waterfall of black silk. Somewhere during their sparring, it had come undone, strands of it drifting across her face.
She stepped forward, and with practiced ease, took out a Plum Blossom Hairpin from her Storage Pouch, gently gathering up the dark locks.
Mu Zhiming folded her legs beneath her and sat obediently on the ground, as still and exquisite as a pristine piece of white porcelain—beautiful, yet carrying a faint air of distance.
While tying her hair, Chen Miao teased, “Ahh, the days I get to help you tie your hair won’t last much longer~”
“Why?” Mu Zhiming didn’t turn around, her voice stiff.
“It’s that childhood friend of yours. After you brought him back to the sect, you’ve kept him cooped up in your courtyard every day, not letting anyone see him.”
“You even brewed medicinal ointments for him, running back and forth without rest.”
“Everyone’s saying you’re planning to take that childhood friend as your male concubine~”
In this cultivation world where women held power, it wasn’t uncommon for capable women to keep several male companions. Even within the sect, quite a few Golden Core Female Elders did the same.
As Chen Miao teased her, a look of envy crept into her eyes.
Unlike Mu Zhiming, she had grown up in a large city near the sect. Her parents were merchants in the market district, skilled in small crafts.
Every few years, people from the Immortal Sect would come to the city and test the spiritual roots of children like her. Any child with more than three spiritual roots would be taken into the sect.
Because she lived close to home, she could still visit her parents often and honor them. And because she had joined the sect since childhood, she never had any playmates her own age.
That was why she envied Mu Zhiming for having a childhood friend—growing up together in a small mountain village, playing together in the deep forests.
Mu Zhiming, however, said nothing in response. She remained silent for a long time.
The wind suddenly stilled for a moment, and the cries of a few Goshawks pierced through the clouds with a few sharp shrieks.
She was silent for so long that Chen Miao had already finished combing her hair. She stood there, hands fidgeting nervously at her sides, a tense expression on her face, afraid she might have said something wrong.
Only then did Mu Zhiming speak, her voice stiff and awkward. “Actually… I’ve almost forgotten what he looks like.”
With that, she let out a faint, melancholic sigh, her brows drooping low.
She had entered the sect when she was ten years old. With her Heavenly Spiritual Root, her cultivation advanced with astonishing speed. In a single day, she drew qi into her body; within a hundred days, she broke through to Qi Refining; and in just a few short years, she reached the Foundation Establishment stage.
It wasn’t until she reached Foundation Establishment that she could truly be considered a cultivator, with a memory far sharper than before.
But the days she’d spent as a mortal, she could no longer recall clearly.
Just like her pupils now—only vague outlines remained.
The times she had spent with her childhood friend beneath the moon amidst the flowers in the deep forests seemed, to her now, little more than a child’s game of house.
Now, when she thought of Ji Wangshu, of her childhood friend, all she felt was more of a…
“Huh? Weren’t you two really close?”
Hearing Mu Zhiming’s answer, Chen Miao let out a breath of relief. Then her eyes went wide, and she circled around to stand in front of her, staring at her.
Mu Zhiming lifted her eyes, her grayish-white pupils looking toward her.
Chen Miao met those pupils, then instinctively turned her head away.
Truthfully, she hadn’t dared tell Senior Sister Mu this, but ever since she’d gone blind, the other senior and junior sisters in the sect would feel a pang of grief whenever they met her gaze, unable to look her in the eye.
“Me and him…”
Mu Zhiming’s stiff voice emerged, then paused mid-sentence.
She thought of their closeness as children, their laughter and play in the deep mountains, the moments they’d spent together beneath the trees under the moonlight.
Those were the most familiar of yesterdays.
Then she thought of their reunion just a few days ago—the unfamiliarity and tension in his tone, as if he were afraid of her. The intimacy of their youth was gone.
Those were the most unfamiliar of todays.
“Most Familiar Stranger… I suppose that’s what we are.”
As she spoke those words, a sour ache spread through her chest, as though she were mourning the past—when she had still been a mortal.
It was just as the saying went: Entering the Immortal Sect is a Deep Sea; From Then On, the Childhood Friend is a Stranger.
…
Mu Zhiming pulled herself back from her reverie when a soft snap sounded from her hand.
She looked down. It seemed her fingers had been too forceful, and she had broken off a petal from the Daisy.
The five pristine white petals in the center of her vision—flawless, with their edges tinged a faint apricot color—had now been broken and scattered.
She gazed at it silently.
The night was cold, the small courtyard quiet. After about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, a fragrant scent she couldn’t quite identify drifted to her nose.
She lifted her head slightly and found that a man had appeared beside her without her noticing. He was quietly watching her, then asked:
“This white Daisy is truly beautiful under the night sky.”