LUO FAN
— ✦ —
We reached a small town tucked within the rolling hills. Its streets were alive with the chatter of townsfolk and the occasional clatter of hooves on cobblestones, yet nothing seemed suspicious. Still, we decided not to linger. After selling the hairpin for an impressive five gold pieces and purchasing much-needed supplies, we swiftly left, vanishing into the countryside before anyone could take too much notice.
The next few days passed in a steady rhythm of travel, and during that time, I began to see Lan Feng in a different light. He wasn't as dull as I'd initially assumed. In fact, he had a sharp sense of humor and an insightful grasp of politics that rivaled even Ruan Yanjun's. As we walked, I found myself drawn into his conversations, learning things I never thought I'd care about. He explained the power plays between empires and sects with such clarity that I couldn't help but admire his intellect.
One afternoon, we came across a group of merchants stranded by the side of the road. One of their carriage wheels had splintered, and they were struggling to repair it. Without hesitation, Lan Feng approached to offer his help.
It wasn't the first time I'd seen his handiwork. As Feng'er, he'd already shown an aptitude for carpentry, but this was on another level. He handled the broken wheel with the precision of an artisan, assessing the damage and making quick work of reinforcing it with materials the merchants had on hand. His calm demeanor and dexterous hands turned what could have been an hours-long delay into a manageable repair.
The merchants were so grateful they insisted on rewarding him with a small pouch of silver coins. But Lan Feng refused, his smile disarming. "If you'd like to repay me," he said, "I have something you might find more valuable to trade."
Intrigued, they watched as he unrolled the weathered robe he'd worn on the day he was ambushed by twelve grandmasters. Bloodied, torn, and scorched at the edges, it looked like the remnant of a battlefield—and it was.
"This," he said, his tone low and confident, "belonged to the infamous Ruan Yanjun at the time of his death. A relic like this would fetch a fortune at auction."
The merchants stared, captivated. Even in its ruined state, the robe's fine stitching and noble embroidery were unmistakable. His delivery sealed the illusion.
They bought it without hesitation, trading a hefty pouch of gold for what they believed was a priceless artifact.
When he returned to me, he handed over the pouch with a triumphant grin. I opened it, and my breath caught at the sight of its gleaming contents. "Gold?" I whispered, astonished. "Is Ruan Yanjun's robe really that valuable?"
"Anything associated with the most notorious level nine cultivator in history is valuable," he said with a smirk.
I shook my head, smiling. "Your marketing skills are remarkable. You could probably sell sand in the desert."
"Maybe that's how I became rich," he replied with a wink.
"Wasn't your family already wealthy?" I teased, tilting my head. "Feng'er told me the Lan family owns practically all of Gamani. And your father married the princess of the Kan Empire."
His expression shifted. The smile faded, replaced by something quieter—more solemn.
"That's true," he admitted. "But I'd rather earn my own title. My own wealth. Not something handed down by my father's name."
I studied him for a long moment, then gave him a soft smile. "Well… it seems like you've done just that. However, by putting that robe into circulation, you've essentially announced to the world that Ruan Yanjun is still alive."
"Or confirm his death," he returned as if he felt no worries at all. "Like you said, Ruan Yanjun is very wealthy and very cunning. Why would he auction his personal things and risk being discovered?"
I smiled as I realized what he was up to. "You're playing mind games with your pursuers?"
He shrugged. "Something for them to think about."
I narrowed my eyes. "What if someone tries to trace the origin of the robe?"
He smirked. "By that time, we'll be long gone."
I exhaled, half in admiration, half in frustration.
In moments like this, I almost missed Feng'er. With Feng'er, there were no arguments. No games. He would have listened to every word I said, followed without hesitation, trusted me without resistance.
But this Lan Feng… He challenged me. Matched me. And perhaps, worst of all—he was beginning to lead.
And a part of me feared he already was.
Seeing how worried still I was, his grin returned, brighter this time, and there was a flicker in his eyes that made my heart stumble.
"Fan," he said, his voice warm and easy, "since we've got more than enough money now, why don't we treat ourselves? The next town isn't far. I'd like to see you eat a proper meal in a restaurant for once… and sleep in a real bed."
I blinked.
He called me Fan. Not Luo Fan. Not Priest Luo. Just… Fan. It was a small thing, but the familiarity in his tone sent a strange flutter through my chest.
I glanced at the road ahead, my practical side stirring again. "That's thoughtful of you," I said carefully. "But showing our faces in a town might expose us to danger."
"I have a plan," he said confidently, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small item.
I squinted at it. "A mustache?" I asked, barely holding back a laugh.
"A fake mustache," he corrected, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "And with a bit of creativity, a new hairstyle, and a change in demeanor, no one will recognize me."
I stared at him for a moment, then burst into soft laughter. "You really think that's enough to fool trained cultivators and imperial scouts?"
"I know it is," he said with a wink that was far too charming for my peace of mind.
The confidence in his voice sent a small ripple of unease through me. Slowly, I was seeing glimpses of the Ruan Yanjun I'd known before—his charm, his cleverness, and that unshakable self-assurance.
"Alright" I said. "But if your disguise fails, don't say I didn't warn you."
His grin widened, flashing all teeth and confidence. "If that happens, I'm all yours to do as you please."
I froze.
The way he said it—unapologetic, flirtatious, shamelessly suggestive—made the air around us thicken.
It wasn't just the words. It was the tone, the lingering gaze, the low lilt that curled into something almost indecent.
That was exactly the kind of thing Ruan Yanjun would say.
And the worst part?
He meant it.
The glint in his eyes said so—bold, unrepentant, teasing. A promise wrapped in silk and sin.
Heat surged up my neck, and I quickly turned my head, pretending to focus on the road. "Let's just get moving," I muttered under my breath.
All yours to do as you please.
The words kept echoing in my head.
❖ ❖ ❖ ❖ ❖
We arrived in the bustling town of Ping just as the sun dipped below the horizon. True to his word, Lan Feng treated me to a proper meal at a restaurant. The flavors of the local cuisine were rich and comforting, and I couldn't help but enjoy the rare moment of normalcy.
As we stepped out to explore the town, the air buzzed with the energy of a festival. Lanterns of all shapes and colors hung above the streets, their glow casting playful shadows on the cobblestone paths. The market was alive with merchants peddling their wares, children darting through the crowd, and street performers drawing clusters of admirers. Lan Feng, in his clever disguise with his hair styled differently and the comical mustache adorning his upper lip, seemed to blend effortlessly into the crowd.
We strolled down the market aisles, sampling an array of delicacies from steaming skewers of grilled meat to sweet rice cakes wrapped in fragrant leaves. Every bite was an adventure, and the simple joy of trying new things felt refreshing. Lan Feng's laughter was infectious as he teased me for burning my tongue on a particularly hot dumpling. For a while, we were just two people enjoying the festivities, unburdened by the weight of our pasts.
At one stall, he stopped to admire a delicate hairpin carved with intricate floral designs. "This would look beautiful on you," he said, reaching for his pouch.
I quickly stopped him, shaking my head. "No, thank you. I already have the most precious one." I touched the hairpin he had crafted for me, smiling. "I wouldn't trade this for anything."
He looked at me, his gaze softening in a way that made my chest tighten. "I'm glad you like it."
Later, I found a stall selling elegant hairbands and thought to buy him one to replace the crude one he wore. But when I showed it to him, he refused. "This one is special," he said, patting the hairband I'd made with my own hands. "It reminds me of you."
His words made my face warm, and I quickly turned my attention to the next stall, pretending to admire their wares to hide my flustered expression.
As the night deepened, we returned to the inn. Lan Feng decided to take a warm bath, and as he relaxed in the tub, he called out to me. "Fan, can you help me with my hair?"
The request caught me off guard, but I agreed. It wasn't the first time I'd done this—washing Feng'er's hair had been a regular task.
I slid the screen aside—and froze.
There he was, sitting in the steaming tub. His chest and shoulders glistened with droplets of water, lean muscle catching the light in all the wrong ways. His collarbones were sharp, his skin pale and smooth, broken only by a faint scar across his chest.
The rest of him was submerged, but what was exposed was enough. Too much.
Heat surged up my neck, reaching the tips of my ears.
I quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the soap and cloth nearby, trying to steady my breath. This is fine. This is normal. You've done this before.
But back then, his presence didn't pull at me like it did now.
I knelt beside him and began working the soap into his long, dark locks, the familiarity of the act brought a wave of bittersweet nostalgia.
"Am I not bothering you with this nonsense?" he asked, glancing up at me.
"Not at all," I replied, my hands gently untangling his hair. "I used to do this with Feng'er all the time. If I didn't wash his hair, he wouldn't bother with it. It always ended up in a tangled mess."
He smiled, a playful glint dancing in his eyes. "You're missing Feng'er again."
"I do," I admitted softly. The confession slipped out with surprising ease. "But at least I get to see a part of him in you."
"Like what?" he asked, the curiosity in his voice genuine and open.
"Like this," I said, nodding toward the bubbles he was absently scooping up and letting drift through his fingers. "Washing your hair while you sit there and entertain yourself. Just like him, you like bubbles in your bath."
Startled, he quickly lowered his hands into the water, scattering the fragile bubbles he'd been playing with. "Am I… acting childish?"
I chuckled under my breath. "Everyone has their childish ways."
"What's yours?" he asked, turning his head slightly toward me. His tone was light, but I could feel the weight behind the question.
"I daydream," I admitted.
He blinked, then smiled. "About what?"
"That one day, I'll be a worthy rival to Ruan Yanjun."
The laughter died on his lips. His body stiffened just slightly, and he turned to look at me with wide, searching eyes.
"Why would you want that?" he asked, quiet now.
"Cultivation has always been my passion," I said. "Every cultivator dreams of reaching his level, of being an equal. But no one has. If he ever breaches the tenth level, he'll be beyond reach—untouchable. All we can do is dream of standing beside him."
He laughed softly, but there was a weight to it, a faint edge of disbelief. "Looking at myself now… I can't imagine how I ever reached that level."
"Your talent is extraordinary," I replied without hesitation.
He shook his head slowly. "I think it was because of the demonic core. Without it, I'd be no different from any other cultivator."
"You were able to control the demonic core," I countered. "That alone proves your strength. Without your willpower, Ruan Yanjun would have been nothing more than a puppet of darkness."
His smile faded slightly, his tone shifting into something more contemplative. "Was he not already?"
I shook my head, firm and certain. "You're being too harsh on yourself. Ruan Yanjun may be ruthless, but he doesn't kill indiscriminately. Every action of his is calculated. Other than for amusement, he doesn't waste his time on ordinary people, much less bother tainting his hands with the blood of those unworthy to be his rival."
Lan Feng stared into the bathwater for a long moment, his brows knitting. "Then who is worthy of being his rival?"
"No one," I said simply.
His gaze flicked up to meet mine. "You're a sixth level… and still young. It won't be long before you reach his level. You'll be worthy."
I let out a soft laugh. "It might take decades. And even if I do, he won't be standing still. He's always ahead—always moving forward. The gap between us is impossibly wide."
"You're underestimating yourself," he said, voice low and earnest. His eyes gleamed with something I couldn't quite define—hope? Admiration? Devotion?
"I'm just being realistic," I replied, offering him a tired smile. "It's nice to dream, but we also have to recognize what's possible. Unless you remain as you are now, and Ruan Yanjun's cultivation never progresses again, I don't see a path to catching up."
He grinned at that, a familiar glimmer of mischief curling his lips. "I can do that for you," he said, voice rich with quiet playfulness. "Stay like this, just for you."
I looked away, heat brushing against my neck, unsure how to respond.
"Even if you did," I said, grasping for steadiness, "there's still the matter of competence. Most grandmasters stagnate at the seventh level, no matter how long they cultivate or how hard they try. For the past fifty years, no one's broken into the eighth."
"Then not everyone is worthy," he said with a small smirk, his voice dropping back into that thoughtful murmur.
"Exactly."
He paused, his gaze steady on mine.
"Fan… is Ruan Yanjun worthy?"
The question lingered between us like a suspended breath.
I finally exhaled. "I don't know. Maybe he is. But if you ask me whether I prefer you over him…"
I met his eyes fully, letting the weight of my words settle.
"I'd choose you. Without hesitation."
A soft smile touched his lips, but he didn't respond right away. I could see it in his expression—he was holding something back, turning it over in his mind.
Then, quietly, almost hesitant, he asked, "Fan… when Feng'er confessed his feelings for you, and you told him you liked him too… did you mean it?"
The question struck through me like a pulse.
I stiffened, my hands stilling mid-motion. Slowly, I tilted my head to look at him. "How do you know about that?"
He smiled, a trace of warmth and wonder in his eyes. "Fragments are coming back. Bits and pieces… like glimpses of a dream."
"Is that why you called me to help with your hair?" I asked. "Because you remember I used to do this with Feng'er?"
"Exactly," he said, the smile widening.
I returned it, though a quiet heaviness had settled in my chest. "What else do you remember?"
"Fan," he said instead, gently sidestepping the question, "you haven't answered mine yet."
"What question?" I deflected, though we both knew I was feigning ignorance.
"If you meant it," he said again, more gently this time. "When you told Feng'er you liked him."
I sighed, knowing there was no way around it. "It was a misunderstanding," I admitted. "But it was entirely my fault. I thought he was being playful. I didn't realize it was a confession. Maybe I was naïve. I never expected someone so young to feel that way about someone ten years older."
He turned to face me, his expression so open and sincere it made something twist in my chest.
"I wouldn't mind even if you were twenty years older," he said, his voice quiet, firm.
My pulse jumped. Heat rushed to my cheeks. I cleared my throat quickly, trying to push away the sudden tension.
"That's enough," I said, trying to sound stern—but the edge of it was lost in the tremor of my voice.
But he didn't stop.
"So… you really didn't mean it that way?" he asked again, more lightly now, though his gaze was still intent—searching.
I met his eyes, heart fluttering, and offered a small, rueful smile. "You should know better than your seventeen-year-old self," I said.
He looked down, silent, as the water trickled down his back in thin rivulets.
I wasn't sure if I'd hurt him. The silence stretched longer than I expected.
Then, just as I opened my mouth to say something, he lifted his head. His expression was unreadable, but his voice was calm, measured.
"Fan," he said carefully, "if I said the same thing to you now… would your answer still be the same?"
The question knocked the air from my lungs.
I froze. My hands were still buried in his hair, squeezing the water from the long, dark strands.
"Yes," I said after a pause, forcing my voice into something casual.
His eyes widened slightly, hope flickering in their depths. "That you like me too?" he asked, almost a whisper.
"In a casual way," I clarified, eyes flicking down to avoid his gaze. I focused on his hair, on anything but the expression I knew he wore.
The spark in his gaze dimmed. The glimmer of hope faded, quieted into something more solemn.
"No more than that?" he asked gently.
"No," I said—firm, final.
He exhaled, a resigned sigh that seemed to echo in the quiet room. "I see."
"Lan Feng," I said gently, reaching for the towel to dry his hair, "whatever you think you feel… it's just a residue of Feng'er's childhood infatuation. It's not real."
His jaw tensed. He tilted his head just enough to meet my gaze, eyes searching, unwavering.
"You don't think a seventeen-year-old is capable of genuine affection?"
The question struck me unexpectedly, sending a flush of warmth straight to my face. I swallowed, willing myself to stay composed.
"It might be real," I said carefully, "if it were directed toward someone closer to his age." My tone stayed even, controlled. "But for someone ten years older… it's different. It's admiration, maybe. Not love."
His gaze didn't waver.
"What about from a twenty-four-year-old?" he asked.
The shift in his voice—low, quiet, intimate—sent a jolt through my chest. My pulse quickened, the air between us tightening with something I couldn't name.
I turned away slightly, cheeks hot. Desperate for distraction, I let out a breath and continued drying his hair, even though it was already nearly dry.
"Let's not talk about that," I said, softly but firmly.
He didn't respond. The silence that followed wasn't cold—but it was heavy. I could feel it settle around us, a lingering pause filled with things unsaid.
"Do you want to order some snacks?" I asked, reaching for any change of topic.
He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I'm far too heartbroken to eat anything."
"Lan Feng," I said, half-scolding.
"I'm joking," he added quickly, flashing a grin. "You're so serious sometimes."
I sighed, offering a faint smile in return. "I'm finished here," I said, brushing his damp hair gently with my fingers one last time before rising to my feet. "Rinse yourself off. The water's getting cold. I'll go order some snacks."
He tilted his head, lips curving again into something playful. "Fan, my legs are stiff. I can't stand up."
I rolled my eyes, shaking my head as I turned toward the door. "Then stay there until you freeze," I said, forcing mock exasperation into my voice. "I'm leaving."
But as I stepped out, I didn't glance back. I couldn't.
My heart was still racing.
The way his eyes had held mine. The way his voice dipped low when he asked if his feelings would still be dismissed now that he was no longer seventeen.
Lan Feng was still Lan Feng… but so much more now.
He wasn't just the soft-hearted boy I'd once cared for—nor was he the cold, domineering devil I had once feared.
He was something in between.
A blend of mischief and maturity. Playfulness and persistence.
An echo of the past… and a man whose presence was becoming dangerously hard to ignore.
As I walked down the hallway, the thoughts swirled in my mind like mist refusing to lift.
This wasn't Feng'er anymore.
But he also wasn't quite Ruan Yanjun.
He was Lan Feng.
And I didn't know how to guard myself against him.