His lapses in composure throughout his life could be counted on one's fingers.
Cui Yun's hand, as if scorched, recoiled. He stood in silence, the color in his eyes growing ever fainter.
The talking inside continued. Yet he couldn't catch a single word any longer.
Cui Yun clenched his eyes shut, trembling. Upon opening them again, he strode away swiftly, his movements betraying a panic-stricken flight and complete disarray.
Over the years, he had clawed his way up, living a life that didn't seem human nor ghostlike, only to find in the end—he was not himself.
But he still remembered, the teachings and example of Old Master Cui, the iron-faced strictness of Cui Yang, and his brotherly respect and affection with Cui Bai.
He also remembered.
Last year's birthday, it was Cui Xuan herself who cooked.
"You've been looking thinner these days, how can this be acceptable?"
Cui Xuan chided.
