I Told My Amnesiac Master He Was My Husband - Chapter 2

When I was fourteen, I was sent to Golden Cloud Mountain and chosen as the sole disciple of Immortal Venerable Shen Dao.

Master was heaven’s favored son. He had possessed a Golden Core from birth, a peerless genius and a beauty without equal beneath the heavens.

He was also spoiled, aloof, arrogant, and entirely uninterested in other people. He had no grand ambitions, either. He spent every day holed up on Golden Cloud Mountain, drinking and sleeping with no regard for night or day.

The first time we met, he glanced at me without the slightest interest. He did not even want to keep me. I dropped to my knees, wrapped myself around his leg, and begged him through my tears to take me in.

If I could not become his disciple, what was the point of cultivating at all?

I had always been helpless in the face of beauty. One glimpse of a pretty face could stop me in my tracks.

One glimpse of Master, and I was lost for life.

I lived by his side for twenty years. At first, I could hardly catch sight of him. Seeing him once every ten days or half a month was a privilege, while he repeatedly forgot both my face and my name.

Whenever he drank himself senseless, I helped him back to bed. He would squint at me, cheeks flushed with wine, and ask, “Who are you?”

Kneeling beside his bed, I would patiently answer, “This disciple is Tu Le, Master’s disciple.”

By the time I looked up, he would already be asleep. Not one word had reached him.

Now he lay before me covered in wounds, stripped of his cultivation and fragile as pale porcelain. The sight overlapped perfectly with my memories of his drunken face asking who I was.

My heart raced.

I stared at him.

And a wicked thought took root.

“I-I’m your wife, and you’re my husband. You fell from a cliff, struck your head, and lost your memory.”

I clenched my fists, trembling with excitement I could not suppress.

I had waited so long for this day—for the chance to say those words.

I had fallen in love with my own master when I was still a girl, and I adored everything about him. Every cup he used, every ribbon he discarded, every strand of hair he shed—I treasured them all.

He was a stern master who rarely smiled. With his usual air of indifference, he would pluck a willow switch from the vase and lash my palms until they were red and swollen.

My eyes would brim with tears, my hands trembling, while he asked coldly, “Do you understand what you did wrong?”

He thought I was afraid.

In truth, I was secretly thrilled.

Whenever he brought the switch down, the first thing to wash over me was the cool, subtle fragrance of his body. Every stroke left me burning all over.

Master had no idea what went through my head. He truly believed I feared him.

I was something of a young prodigy myself. Again and again, I took first place in the great tournaments between sects, bringing him honor for no reason other than to make him look at me a little longer.

Eventually, he accepted my presence and even rewarded me from time to time. When I was exhausted, he would stroke my head and murmur, “Good girl. You can do it.”

I would spring back to life on the spot.

Master worked better than any immortal pill.

Now he had lost his memories and all his cultivation. He was no different from an ordinary mortal.

I knew at once that my chance had finally come.