The one-armed woman gazed at Chen Yi's sleeping face.
Chen Yi had severed his Separative Self-Attachment and no longer knew whether she was beautiful or not. Zhou Yitang, however, had long ceased to care whether Chen Yi looked good or not.
She was a true cultivator, had already severed her Three Corpses, and in the Sword Tomb, her arm had been cut off along with them.
For someone like her, who had achieved mastery in cultivation, beauty or ugliness made no difference—it was merely skin-deep. In her eyes, he was without exceptional features; his appearance mattered not.
Zhou Yitang did not reach out to touch him but simply stared silently at the man entangled with her through two lifetimes.
She felt a heavy, stifling air in her chest that grew especially oppressive as she watched him.
The weight of their karmic bond pressed down on her heart. Zhou Yitang still remembered the day he died—a day when she let out a breath of relief.
