LUO FAN
— ✦ —
Days passed, and I could tell that Lan Feng was strong enough to travel again. His gait had steadied, his complexion had improved, and his spiritual energy—though still faint—no longer flickered like a dying flame. As much as I longed to stay on this island and preserve the fragile peace we had found, I knew our time here was borrowed.
Staying any longer would only endanger the lives of the villagers who had shown us nothing but kindness.
Ruan Yanjun's enemies would not stop searching. Regardless of the damage they had done to him, unless they saw his cold corpse with their own eyes, they would never dismiss the possibility that he might have survived.
And I had my own pursuers to consider. Emperor Gao's men and the hounds of Marquis Kong still hunted me, relentless and unwavering. In their eyes, my supposed crime could not be forgiven. For mutilating the marquis, I had not only offended his pride—I had maimed a symbol of imperial power. To them, my death would never be enough.
But each time I looked at Lan Feng, seated cross-legged on the porch or humming softly while hanging herbs to dry, I found myself hesitating. The peace that had softened his gaze and curved his lips into those rare, gentle smiles—how could I take that away from him? Outside this island, there would be danger, and without his full strength or memories, he'd be vulnerable. If his enemies discovered that, they would strike swiftly, without mercy.
So I delayed telling him the truth.
One tranquil afternoon, when the sun began its descent and bathed the ocean in strokes of gold and blood-orange, we sat side by side on the sand. The breeze was mild, and the waves lapped lazily at the shore, murmuring secrets only the sea could understand. Lan Feng's posture was relaxed—his elbow propped on one bent knee, chin resting against his palm—as he stared toward the horizon with a distant look in his eyes. He looked almost like a painting, the golden light catching in his long lashes and the dark strands of his hair dancing softly around his face.
I watched him from the corner of my eye. That quiet, contemplative expression had become familiar in recent days. Though we shared laughter and light moments, he still kept his silence on certain things. Even as he trusted me enough to sleep beside me, to reach for my hand during his nightmares, there were thoughts he kept buried beneath the surface.
"Gege," he said suddenly, his voice soft but clear, "where is this place?"
I blinked, caught off guard by the question. "We've been here for over a month," I said with a faint smile. "And you're only asking now?"
He furrowed his brows slightly, as if unsure of himself. "I don't know, Gege. I guess I just got curious now."
I chuckled softly, realizing that his recovery had likely sharpened his awareness. In the early days, his mind had been too clouded by pain and confusion to take notice of much beyond his immediate surroundings.
"This is a small island," I explained, shifting to face him more fully. "It lies in the southernmost part of the Silang Empire."
His eyes returned to the sea, watching as the sun cast shimmering lines across the surface. "That's too far from home," he murmured, a shadow crossing his face. "How did I end up here?"
I hesitated, then replied lightly, "Who knows? Do you miss Donghai?"
"Donghai?" he repeated with a blink. "That's only our summer home."
My brows drew together. "Then where's home?"
"Hanyue," he answered, his voice tinged with distant pride. "Up north. In the Xue Empire."
The name struck a chord in me. Hanyue. That was a province near Xuetian, the capital of the northern empire.
"Is that where you grew up?" I asked, my voice gentler.
He nodded. "It's a beautiful place," he said with a faint smile. "Full of light cultivation schools and ancient towers… but it gets terribly cold in winter." His smile faded slightly, and his gaze grew distant again, as if trying to grasp something just beyond memory's reach.
The sorrow that flitted across his face sent a pang through my chest.
"Do you miss home?" I asked.
"I do," he replied quietly, lowering his head. His fingers dug lightly into the sand. "But I don't know if I can ever find my way back."
I reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, offering the only comfort I could. "You will. I'll help you."
He turned to me, his gaze wide and filled with such earnestness that it made something twist in my chest. There was an innocence in his eyes, untouched by the weight of the past he couldn't remember.
"Gege, is this your home?" he asked.
"No," I replied, shaking my head gently. "We're only staying here temporarily."
"Oh," he murmured, the sound quiet and laced with disappointment. He turned back to the ocean, watching the waves crest and roll beneath the golden light. "I like it here. I like the ocean… and the fishes. It reminds me of my other home in Donghai."
I smiled faintly, amused by the simplicity in his answer. "We're only here because some people are looking for you."
"For me?" His head snapped toward me, eyes wide with confusion. "I thought they were looking for you?"
I let out a quiet sigh. "The people after me are different. The ones searching for you are... far more persistent. There are more of them, and many are stronger than I am. If they find you…" My voice trailed off as I looked away, the image of him wounded or captured searing its way into my mind. "Even with all my cultivation, I wouldn't be able to protect you."
He stared at me, his expression blank for a moment, as though trying to make sense of something that didn't quite fit. Then he blinked twice and asked, with soft, uncertain words, "Why do they want to kill me? Am I... a bad person?"
A flicker of something cold gripped my spine. I wanted to tell him the truth—that "bad" wasn't nearly strong enough a word. That the man he had once been wasn't just feared—he was hated, hunted, loathed. That his name alone had been enough to silence entire halls. But to say all that now, to this boy who had wept over fish and feared the dark, would be cruel.
"I don't know what you did," I said instead, choosing mercy. "Maybe you offended the wrong people."
"If I apologized," he asked, voice trembling with hope, "would they forgive me?"
I shook my head. "It's not that simple. Even if you did, they wouldn't stop until they knew you were dead."
He let out a slow, heavy breath, the weight of the truth sinking slowly into his bones. "Then let's just stay here forever, Gege," he murmured, his words so soft I almost missed them. "Here, no one wants to kill me. People here are kind."
A sad smile tugged at the corner of my lips. "We can't do that, Feng'er. You have a family waiting for you. Don't you miss them?"
His expression faltered. He lowered his gaze to the sand. "I do."
"That's why we can't stay," I said gently. "The house isn't ours. The villagers only let us stay temporarily. Once things settle down, I'll take you home."
His eyes lit up, surprise and joy flooding his features. "Really, gege? You'll go with me all the way home?"
I hesitated, guilt pricking at the edge of my conscience. He was thinking of Hanyue, the snowy province in the north, but I knew our path led not there, but back to Xianru—his estate, his hidden fortress, the dark place that had once housed the man he no longer remembered. Still, I couldn't bring myself to disappoint him. Not yet.
"I have to," I said, forcing a smile. "To make sure you get there in one piece."
His smile widened, bright and full of light. "That's wonderful, gege. I really want you to meet my family."
I raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"
"So that…" he began, but his smile faltered. His gaze dropped again. "So that…"
I waited, watching him carefully. Something deeper stirred behind his words.
Finally, he lifted his eyes to meet mine. "I'll tell them you saved my life," he said softly, but with resolve. "You said you're an orphan… that you don't have a family. I'm sure my family will accept you as one of us."
His words caught me off guard, piercing through me like sunlight breaking through clouds. He said it with such sincerity, such hope, that I found myself momentarily speechless.
I smiled, feeling a warmth—bittersweet and aching—bloom quietly in my chest. "That would be nice, Feng'er."
He nodded in return, but I could tell there was more he wanted to say. Something lingered in the way his eyes lingered on mine. Whatever it was, he kept it buried behind a quiet silence.
I wished I could tell him the truth—that a hundred years had passed since the life he remembered, and his family no longer existed in this world. But how could I shatter the fragile innocence he still carried? How could I tell him that the home he longed for was nothing but dust and memories? He deserved to know, eventually. But not now. I needed more time—time to reveal the truth piece by piece, so he could accept it without breaking.
"I remember something," he said suddenly, pulling me from my thoughts.
"What do you remember?" I asked, turning fully toward him. His gaze had drifted to the sea again, his brows knit in concentration, as if he were searching through the mist of forgotten years.
"I almost had a master once."
I arched a brow, surprised. Slowly but surely, it seemed, his memories were beginning to return—fragments of a childhood long buried.
"Almost?" I prompted gently.
"When I was six, Guo and I enrolled in a martial arts school."
"Guo?" I repeated, already recalling the name he had once mentioned—the neighbor boy who had betrayed him. "The one who pushed you off the bridge?"
He nodded, and a faint shadow passed over his face. "We were friends before that. But something changed. He got jealous."
"Jealous of what?" I asked.
"A girl," he said simply, and his tone carried an odd mix of embarrassment and sorrow.
"So he betrayed you… over a girl?" I asked, trying not to sound incredulous.
He nodded again but didn't explain further. Instead, his thoughts shifted to another memory. "My teacher's name was Zhu Gang. But I never called him 'master.' Only 'teacher.'"
"Why not?" I asked, intrigued.
"He only accepted disciples who were at least twelve and had reached level one. He told me I needed to earn the right to call him 'master.' So I worked hard. By the time I reached level one, I was still too young." He paused for a moment, the light in his eyes dimming. "Before I turned twelve, Zhu Gang died."
I watched him quietly, taking in his expression. There was no bitterness in his voice—only quiet resignation. "So officially, you never had a master," I said, more to myself than to him.
"No," he replied softly. "Not officially."
"What happened after that?" I asked. "Did you look for another teacher?"
He shook his head. "My father pulled me out of the school. My brothers had joined the army, and he said he needed me at home to help with the family business. Cultivation was no longer important."
I frowned. For someone who had started cultivating so young and managed to reach level one by twelve, that kind of potential shouldn't have been wasted. "Did you stop cultivating altogether?"
"No," he said with quiet defiance. "I kept training on my own. I read books, practiced forms, and watched sparring matches whenever I could. But without guidance, I hit a wall. By the time I turned seventeen, I was still stuck at level one."
"Seventeen and still level one?" I echoed, trying not to let the surprise color my voice too much.
He nodded, lowering his gaze. "Guo had surpassed me by then. He started mocking me, picking fights just to prove he was better. He used his higher cultivation to humiliate me."
I clenched my fists at the thought. Even if those memories were distant, the hurt on his face was fresh. "But what you did out there in the ocean," I said, shifting the conversation, "that wasn't something a level one cultivator could've done."
He looked up, puzzled. "I was shocked too. I've never been strong. I wasn't even that good at martial arts. If you told me to do that again, I don't think I could. And I've never fought barehanded before. I always used a sword."
I tried to recall the events of that day. The moment Lan Feng struck the Shuiyan, I had felt a faint but unmistakable surge of dark energy. It was as if his dormant demonic core had stirred to life, awakened by his desperation to protect me. It was fleeting, yet undeniable. The raw power of the core briefly pulsed through him, defying all logic for someone who was, by all appearances, still at the first level of cultivation.
"They say that…" he began hesitantly, breaking my train of thought. He turned to meet my gaze, his expression thoughtful. "When someone is desperate to protect someone they care about, it can unlock hidden strengths. Strengths we didn't even know we had. Maybe that's what happened to me."
His words lingered in the air, and for a moment, I was speechless. We were thinking the same thing, though I doubted he fully grasped what had transpired. His explanation was innocent, sincere, and it touched me deeply.
If this were the real Ruan Yanjun, the man I once knew, he would have watched my battle with the Shuiyan from a distance, likely amused by my struggle. If he had stepped in, it would have been only because I was still useful to him. But this boy, this version of him, had thrown himself into danger without hesitation. Not for power or gain, but purely to save me.
Slowly, as if drawn by an invisible force, I reached out and touched his face. His skin was warm beneath my fingertips, his expression one of quiet curiosity. There was something I wanted to tell him, something that weighed heavily on my heart.
"Gege?" he called softly, his voice breaking through my thoughts.
I blinked, startled from my trance. His eyes were fixed on me, patient but expectant, waiting for whatever I had been about to say. I forced a smile, masking the turmoil in my heart. "You are my hero," I said simply.
A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a radiant smile. He reached up and placed his hand over mine, the warmth of his touch both reassuring and unnerving. His fingers curled around mine, holding them gently as if afraid I might pull away.
"Gege's cultivation is far better than mine," he said earnestly. "All I did was distract the Shuiyan… and give you energy with a ki—"
I cut him off with a sharp clearing of my throat, my face heating at the memory of the kiss. "Don't say it," I muttered, pulling my hand free from his grasp.
He lowered his head, momentarily chastised. But when he looked back up, there was no anger or embarrassment in his eyes, only sincerity. "Gege," he said softly, "anytime you need to recharge your energy, you can take it from me again. You don't even need to ask."
My ears burned at his words, and I struggled to maintain my composure. "Alright," I said quickly, hoping to dismiss the topic. "If it's ever needed, I'll keep that in mind."