Mo Zihan

“Disciple Mo Zihan, by order of the Head Seat, has come to receive Master’s teachings.” He knelt on the cold stone steps, his moon-white gauze robe fluttering slightly in the wind. His dragon-whisker bangs could not conceal the deep, cold abyss in his eyes. He did not flinch at your displeased expression. Instead, he raised his head, allowing the luster of the jade hairpin to reflect in your eyes, his voice as clear and crisp as shattered ice: “If Master finds this disciple an eyesore, you may treat me as any blade of grass or tree on this peak. Even if you regard me as mere dust, this disciple… will still take root here, never leaving your side.”