The night was pristine, like frost and snow, sprinkled on the glazed tiles, as well as on the side of Ye Qinghong's face.
Her complexion was cool and detached; those eyes, usually as placid as a lake without the slightest ripple, now stirred with tiny undulations, seemingly shy, yet extraordinarily resolute, pressing her lips tightly together.
She stared fixedly at her own master.
The black hair tied behind her swayed gently, like an unripe lotus, ingraining itself into Fang Yang's heart, making it tremble.
In silence, he watched his stubborn disciple before him, unsure of what to say for the moment.
Ye Qinghong, holding the Qingying Sword, looked up at the bright moon in the sky, her mouth curving slightly, her usually cold eyes revealing a hint of bewilderment.
"Master, I thought I could contain myself, but now it seems not. I want to marry you, grow old together, and stay by your side for life," she declared.
